


Than Are Dreamt Of In Your Philosophy

by Jezunya



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anti-theism, Atheism, Atheist reinterpretation of canon, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon is not what it seems, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Is A Pine Tree In Sunglasses, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a not-entirely-reliable narrator, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Hermeneutical injustice, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Mistakes were made, Multiverse Theory, Other, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Present Tense, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Rating May Change, Religious Abuse, Scifi reinterpretation of canon, Sort Of, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), They/them pronouns for some characters, Walking Anxiety Attack Crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 36,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21705187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jezunya/pseuds/Jezunya
Summary: A little over six months after the world didn't end, two angels show up at the bookstore claiming they only want to talk – though what they want to talkaboutquickly sends both Crowley and Aziraphale careening down a path of doubt, exploration, and, ultimately, freedom.~Pursing their lips, Zedika nods and then looks up into Aziraphale's face once more. "I have begun; you deserve the rest of the explanation," they murmur, and then take a deep breath. "A very long time ago, an entity invaded this world. A dangerous parasite long known to our kind. It…” They trail off, licking their lips, and finish in a whisper, "It is the one you have known previously as… 'God.'"
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 86
Kudos: 135





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been eating my brain for the last several months, so here, have this ex-religious author's attempt to reconcile how much I love this fandom with how much of a big ol' angry atheist I am.
> 
> Title is, of course, from _Hamlet_ : "There are more things in heaven and Earth ... / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy" (1.5.166-7)

There are two angels waiting on the front steps of the bookshop. 

Crowley freezes, having just pulled the front door open. Everything in the world seems to stop, narrowing down to the only important things in the entire universe: this new threat, and Aziraphale a few paces behind him, still oblivious as he shrugs into his coat in advance of their plans to go out for breakfast. 

"Greetings," one of the angels says as they lower their hand, which had been raised in a fist as if to knock on the door. Their wings rustle behind them in the March breeze.

He slams the door in their faces and begins hastily backing away. 

"Crowley? My dear, what—?" Aziraphale asks, catching him with his hands on his shoulders as Crowley all but bowls him over. 

He spins and grabs the angel by the upper arms. “It’s— Your lot. Your _old_ lot,” he hisses, pushing further back into the shop and dragging Aziraphale with him. 

“What?!” Aziraphale gasps, his hands coming up to cup Crowley's elbows, and then he’s no longer simply letting Crowley tow him around but instead turning to face the door as he pushes the demon behind him. He raises one hand, waving it in a slow arc, reinforcing the wards on the shop, making the air tingle with his magic. “Did you see who it was?”

Crowley shakes his head. “Didn’t recognize ‘em. Not Archangels, or anyone else famous." More than that, there was something… off about them. He can't quite put his finger on it, though, his mind too caught up in a chorus of _Oh shit oh shit oH SHIT_ the moment he saw them standing there. But no, definitely something off, something almost… demonic? But that can't be right… "Figure I just don’t know every angel in Heaven anymore,” he says, because they _definitely_ weren't any demons he recognizes – and he would recognize anyone Hell sent after them.

Aziraphale frowns thoughtfully, lowering his hand. Crowley knows what he's going to say: that there shouldn't _be_ any angels he doesn't know. Having their true names stripped from them is what sets demons apart from the Host, their forms mangled beyond recognition when they Fell, but anyone of angel stock, Fallen or not, should still know the name of any angel they encounter, an intrinsic part of themselves from the very creation of the universe, the Word that was spoken to bring them into being. 

Unless there were somehow new angels created since he Fell… which, going by Aziraphale's troubled expression, seems unlikely.

Before either of them can say anything more, an insistent knock sounds at the door, followed by the raised voice of the angel who had spoken to Crowley on the doorstep. "Greetings! Are you there? Our primary objective at this time is only to converse with you!"

"Oh sure, we're definitely going to buy _that_ story," Crowley growls quietly, glaring at the door. His hand fists in the back of Aziraphale's jacket, and he knows the angel will fuss at him about the wrinkles later, but right this moment he can only think of where he might safely teleport them both away from here. His flat is out – if they've come here to the bookshop, then there could just as easily be another group lying in wait there. Maybe Tadfield – between Adam and Anathema, the little village is well-protected, even if it might well be the very next place that agents of Heaven or Hell would think to look for them… And it is a long, exhausting way to travel by miracle alone…

Why couldn't they just leave them be?! It's been months now since the Apocafail, and not a peep from Above or Below, taking time to lick their wounds after those disastrous attempted executions, just like Crowley had predicted. He'd made plans, of course, escape plans and defensive plans, contingencies upon contingencies, in the first weeks after the world didn't end, but then no one had come for them, and seven gloriously quiet months had passed and he'd just barely begun to let his guard down, had watched the tension finally bleed from Aziraphale's shoulders, had actually let himself start to think that they could really be in the clear for a century or two.

It's _only_ been seven months, though. Barely a drop in the bucket compared to six thousand years of wanting and fearing and—

And yet it's still more than Crowley ever let himself hope for before, both the time spent together and the… whatever it is they're doing, with the little touches, like now, or like Aziraphale's hand on the small of his back guiding him through doorways, or their knees touching when they sit on their bench in the park, or even, sometimes, when Aziraphale is drunk enough to join him on the sofa instead of sitting so far away in his armchair across the room, a heavy weight leaned against his side, a head on his shoulder… 

It's so much more than Crowley ever dared hope for, certainly more in just the last few months than there was in all six millennia of history put together – but now, faced suddenly with the reckoning they knew was inevitable, almost certain destruction raining down from Above and no time to prepare, no means to fake their way out of it this time, all Crowley can think is that it's not enough, it's too soon. He's not even properly held his angel's hand yet, much less asked if it might be alright to maybe possibly at some point try out this whole kissing lark, or perhaps waking up in each other's arms, or all manner of other disgustingly soft, domestic things he'd never admit to actually dreaming about.

Aziraphale's gaze is, thankfully, fixed on the door, watching to see what the strange angels will do rather than watching these thoughts play out across Crowley's face, the despair rising up to swallow him whole.

"Perhaps…" Aziraphale murmurs then, "perhaps we should see what they want. They say they only want to talk, after all. If it's someone we can reason with—"

Crowley shakes his head, tightens his grip on Aziraphale's jacket, thinks more about wrinkles and how much he wants Aziraphale to still be here _to_ fuss at him later. "And exactly how well did 'reasoning with them' go last time?" he hisses. Because Crowley seems to remember them trying to _murder_ Aziraphale, and that on top of the various verbal and physical assaults from his fellow angels that Aziraphale had eventually admitted to after enough alcohol and enough needling.

Aziraphale sighs, wilting slightly, and Crowley feels a momentary pang, before remembering himself and redirecting his anger where it belongs: with the bastards who dared to treat such a kind, sincere, _good_ being so poorly, and dare now to cut in on what was supposed to be an eternity together. "That was… upper management, I'd like to remind you," Aziraphale says, glancing away from the front doors to meet Crowley's gaze for a moment. With a small, sardonic smile, he adds, "Not _all_ angels are like them, you know, my dear."

Crowley growls and grabs up Aziraphale's wrist in his other hand as he attempts – unsuccessfully – to pull him further back from the front of the shop. "You're really more an exception than the norm, angel."

Aziraphale shrugs, his smile turning sad, a bit brittle. It's still difficult for him to hear, even after all these months, but he's at least not still trying to defend Gabriel and that lot anymore. And he doesn't seem to mind Crowley's hands on him, even if he is about as easy to budge as a bloody brick wall when he doesn't want to move.

"Our visitors haven't tried to break in yet, in any case," Aziraphale goes on in a dogged murmur, turning his attention back to the door. "You'd think they would, if they were here to capture or kill us. Of course…" He pauses, looking thoughtful. "If they're from a lower choir, then they might not be here for that at all."

"What? Why else would a couple of angels come to find us out of the blue?" Crowley asks, frowning at him, memorizing his profile for what must be at least the millionth time – and what might be the last time. Aziraphale looks back at him, eyebrows raised slightly, and it clicks. "Wha— H— Nn— You _can't_ think—"

"That they could be looking to defect?" Aziraphale finishes. He smiles slightly. "Surely it doesn't seem entirely outside the realm of possibility." He drops his gaze, adding quietly, "We did, after all." And then he slides his arm up and out of Crowley's grasp, until their palms meet; he gives Crowley's hand a brief squeeze before pulling away entirely and striding once more to the shop's front doors.

"Aziraphale, _don't—_ "

But he does: Aziraphale steps up to the front of the shop, straightens his lapels and waistcoat, and then opens the doors.

The two angels are still standing on the stoop, though they seem to have been conferring quietly between themselves in the last few minutes, and they blanch slightly when Aziraphale greets them head-on. "Can I help you?" he asks in that cool, polite voice that is normally reserved for especially determined customers. Crowley begins to slink up behind him.

"We have arrived here with peaceful intentions," the apparent spokesangel says in a rush. Even goes so far as to hold their hands up, as if that'll prevent a smiting.

There's definitely something off about these two, and Crowley _can_ put his finger on it now that he's got a second look at them, but that's hardly his main concern at the moment.

"Angel," he hisses from behind Aziraphale's shoulder, taking in the growing number of people on the street beyond them, some stopping to simply stare at the winged figures, while a few have begun to point their phones' cameras toward the shop.

The two on the steps exchange a quick look, apparently uncaring of the attention they're drawing, and then the one who hadn't spoken yet whispers something to their companion that sounds an awful lot like, " _Theological term._ "

"Er," Aziraphale says. Then, tight-lipped with disapproval, "If your intentions are indeed peaceful, you might consider _not_ upsetting the local populace."

The two angels – definitely angels, not demons, because what else could these morons be, standing out in the middle of London with their wings on full display for all the humans to see! – exchange another confused look, and _still_ don't hide their wings. "We do not intend to upset your charges," says the same one who'd spoken up before, looking back at Aziraphale. "We understand that our presence may yet be unwelcome here—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Crowley growls, snapping his fingers and sending a wave of hazy forgetfulness out to the surrounding city block. He shoves past Aziraphale to grab the talky angel by the shoulder. "Get in here, before you cause a riot! Or a religious revival!" He feels Aziraphale loosen the wards he'd placed around the shop's perimeter a few minutes ago, enough that Crowley can haul the angel inside over the threshold.

The other angel, the quiet one, follows after of their own volition, wringing their hands together as Aziraphale ushers them inside and finally shuts the doors again. Their eyes dart around the shop, and between Crowley and Aziraphale, though they make no move to free their comrade from the demon's grasp. "We definitively do not desire more religion here," they murmur.

Well, that's… weird.

He looks to Aziraphale, who meets his gaze seeming just as confused and perturbed as Crowley feels, but who only shrugs after a moment and turns back to locking up. He feels the shiver of another miracle pulse out through the air then: Aziraphale has no doubt erased any photographic evidence that any bystanders might have collected of the winged dumbarses.

Dumbarses who have yet to make any hostile moves, he has to admit, letting go of the one he'd grabbed and stepping back. Maybe they really are just here to talk. _Maybe_ they're even here to defect from Heaven, like Aziraphale supposed.

 _I'll believe that when I see it,_ Crowley thinks with a curl of his lip, folding his arms and glaring at the angels. Waiting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't know you," Aziraphale says after a moment, his frown deepening. His gaze switches between the two of them, and Crowley can see the growing alarm in his eyes. "I don't know either of you. How is that possible?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... This chapter brings us to the first major bit of the plot, and the thing that makes me most nervous about posting this fic at all. 'Atheism' isn't a tag you see often in this fandom, after all :s

"So," Crowley says after a moment of silence, standing back to regard the newcomers with a critical eye. 

They're definitely strange. Strange _looking_ , for angels. Both apparently feminine presenting, middling height, long auburn hair on the quiet one while the talkative one has short, dark hair – but none of that is what's strange. They're both dressed in perfectly normal clothing, none of the muck or horror to be expected from the lot Downstairs – and why would there be? They're not demons, obviously, he doesn't even know why he keeps thinking that – but also nowhere to be found are the pale golds and greys of Aziraphale's former bosses: The quiet one wears brown jeans and a maroon jumper, while the other sports a dark red, open-backed dress that Crowley kind of wants to steal. 

But it's really the wings that throw him, now that he's stopped long enough to actually look at them, now that his panic has quieted enough to allow him to pay attention to these details.

Their wings are _dark_. Burnt umber, if he had to put a name to it, the feathers matching their respective hair colors, with hints of red where they catch the light and trailing towards black at the tips.

With that sort of coloring, he'd almost go back to wondering if they could be demons, but that's… No. That's impossible. Heaven must just have more variety in its lower ranks than he'd recalled. 

"So," he says again, shaking himself, "what do you want?"

The short-haired one steps forward. "You are the one called Crowley?" they ask.

Or, sort of ask. Their mouth certainly opens, and sounds certainly come out of it, just not _those_ sounds.

Crowley can only stare for a second, that same feeling of wrongness overtaking him as when they had addressed him on the front steps. Aziraphale's slow movement towards them from the door catches his eye a moment later, though, the angel creeping cautiously nearer, hemming them in from either side. Right. He draws himself up, hugging his arms more tightly about himself and cocking an unimpressed eyebrow. "Who's asking?"

This earns him another long, seemingly confused silence, before finally the other one speaks up. "This is Kinaa," they say softly, gesturing to their more talkative companion, "and I am Zedika."

"Zedekiah?" Aziraphale asks, frowning, and the angels look back at him, as if only just remembering he's there.

"Ze-dee-ka," the quiet one repeats, shaking their head. _That_ time their mouth and their speech actually seem to match, from what Crowley can see.

"I don't know you," Aziraphale says after a moment, his frown deepening. His gaze switches between the two of them, and Crowley can see the growing alarm in his eyes. "I don't know either of you. How is that possible?"

"It would not be possible for you to know us before now, Guardian," the first angel sniffs dismissively, dress swirling as they turn back to Crowley. Oh yeah, he's definitely going to copy that look for the next time he's feeling more femme. Behind them, Aziraphale looks only more disturbed, while the other angel, Zedika, glares at Kinaa's back.

"Our intelligence indicates that you have recently broken with the dichotomous system established here," Kinaa says, addressing Crowley intently. "Is this correct?"

Crowley watches their mouth closely. Listens hard to what his ears are actually hearing. Because they're _definitely_ not speaking English, either of them.

If he had to put a name to it, he'd say it _sounds_ like they're speaking Enochian, communicating in pure concepts, in the language by which the universe was forged from raw firmament. Sort of. But even that isn't quite right. It's not like what they speak in Hell, or what he remembers of Heaven – the two have diverged over the millennia, forming into more distinctly separate dialects as their cultures have grown further apart, the ways they conceive of reality in ever greater opposition to each other, and that opposition is reflected in their language. But this… this is like an entirely new offshoot. Could Heaven have changed so much in the less than a year it's been since the Apocalypse?

"I suppose you could say we have, yes," Aziraphale answers Kinaa's question, inching closer still, and he meets Crowley's gaze across the room for a brief moment before looking back down at the strange angels.

" _Your_ confirmation is useless to us," Kinaa says, barely sparing him a glance over their shoulder. Crowley scowls.

"Kinaa!" Zedika snaps; apparently, they do have the ability to speak above a whisper. "She is disrespectful," they say, frowning up at Aziraphale. "I apologise."

"Oh, er, apology accepted?" 

Zedika gives Aziraphale a tentative smile, while Kinaa only rolls her eyes and looks to Crowley once more. "Is what the Guardian says true? Have you rejected the dichotomy?" 

"…Yeah?" Crowley answers, frowning down at her. The almost-Enochian is still throwing him, and the way she keeps saying 'Guardian' makes him think of the condescending way Gabriel and that lot would address Aziraphale as 'Principality.' They can't possibly, _actually_ be trying to use his former position as a guardian of Eden's gates as yet another way for the rest of Heaven to look down on him, can they?

Kinaa's stance relaxes at his response, a smile breaking across her face. Behind her, Zedika draws in a soft breath, also staring at him, and says, "Then perhaps the healing can finally begin."

"Healing?" Aziraphale echoes, cocking his head, and Crowley meets his gaze past the two strangers once more. What sort of healing could they mean? And because they've broken off from Heaven and Hell? But the talky one was entirely uninterested in what Aziraphale had to say… so only because Crowley has parted ways with Hell…

"I don't know what kind of shit you think you're peddling," he snarls, looming over Kinaa now and feeling darkly pleased when she takes a step back into Zedika, her wings curving up and around herself protectively, "but I don't need your bloody _healing_. As if anything could ever tempt me to go back to Heaven, after everything they've done, to me, and my kind, to _Aziraphale—_ "

"No!" Zedika cries, stepping out from behind Kinaa and raising their hands as if to placate him, their wings flaring slightly. "That is not what we intend! We do not wish to send you back to the parasite!"

That draws Crowley up short, and, across from him, Aziraphale seems to have frozen, his face contorting in confusion, disbelief, revulsion, offense— 

"What did you say?" his angel finally whispers hoarsely. Kinaa shoots Zedika a dirty look before they both turn to look back at him. 

"That is why we have come here," Zedika tells him. "We have watched for a very long time, and, finally, it seems the invader's power over this place is lessening."

Crowley can see Aziraphale's throat bob as he swallows, even all the way across the shop as he is. "Ah… Invader?" Aziraphale asks, his voice a high, anxious trill.

Zedika looks to Kinaa, who shakes her head with a glare. "I still believe we should tell _him_ nothing. But this is _your_ area of expertise," she adds with a flippant hand wave and a put-upon sigh.

Pursing their lips, Zedika nods and then looks up into Aziraphale's face once more. "I have begun; you deserve the rest of the explanation," they murmur, and then take a deep breath. "A very long time ago, an entity invaded this world. A dangerous parasite long known to our kind. It…” They trail off, licking their lips, and finish in a whisper, "It is the one you have known previously as… 'God.'"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "HOW DARE YOU," thunders a holy voice that only vaguely resembles Aziraphale, filling the entire space like a physical force, shaking the bookshop on its foundation – very nearly shaking the foundations of the Earth, in Crowley's view.
> 
> "Please—!" Zedika cries. "Please, listen—"
> 
> "SILENCE! I WILL NOT HEAR SUCH BLASPHEMY!"

There's a deafening silence in the bookshop for several long seconds, and then Aziraphale's wings are out too, his entire form blazing bright with righteous fury. Crowley barely has time to duck and find a bookshelf to cower behind, glad he had already slipped on his sunglasses before opening the front door to this mess.

"HOW DARE YOU," thunders a holy voice that only vaguely resembles Aziraphale, filling the entire space like a physical force, shaking the bookshop on its foundation – very nearly shaking the foundations of the Earth, in Crowley's view.

"Please—!" Zedika cries, and through the gaps in the shelf Crowley can just see the two junior angels also scuttling back amongst the stacks, away from the burning wrath of an enraged warrior of God, in their haste knocking over teetering book piles and small curios with their wings – which, Crowley winces, not exactly the way to get Aziraphale to calm down. "Please, listen—"

"SILENCE! I WILL NOT HEAR SUCH BLASPHEMY!"

"I _told_ you!" Kinaa hisses to Zedika from where she's fallen on her arse down another aisle between the shelves, all but cocooned inside her wings. "I told you he was still loyal, but you could not resist opening your Guardian-fucking mouth!"

Well that's… interesting. She means that literally. Enochian, and all that. 

Maybe 'Guardian' isn't meant as a pejorative after all, Crowley thinks, his mind racing down a whole new track. At least not for one of them. Maybe this Zedika is some kind of groupy, a fawning little fan of the small band of angels who had patrolled the walls of Eden. A fan of how he'd helped prevent the Apocalypse? How he'd stood up to Gabriel and the other Archangels? 

A fan who gives him shy little smiles and gasps at their companion's disrespectful attitude towards him, who sees their chance now that Heaven isn't watching anymore…

Crowley's well familiar, by now, with the surge of possessive jealousy that thought brings with it. He's long learned to tolerate Kit Marlowe and Oscar bloody Wilde living on on Aziraphale's shelves. They were just mortals, after all, mere temporary distractions and amusements for his angel.

This, though…

This… doesn't add up, actually. 

From his vantage point, Crowley can't see Zedika's face, but their shoulders tense at Kinaa's words, their wings flaring once more, and then the quiet angel is pushing to their feet again. 

Crowley growls low in his throat, then catches himself, shakes the feeling away. Whatever he thinks of whatever this little angel thinks of Aziraphale – not the point right now. Their message, the thing that has so upset Aziraphale, very much _is_ the point.

He slowly uncurls himself from his defensive crouch behind the shelf.

"I intend no disrespect," Zedika says, though they don't attempt to close the distance between themself and Aziraphale, hovering at the edge of his fiery, holy aura just like Crowley is. Almost as if—

Bah, no. Anyone would be intimidated and afraid to approach Aziraphale when he's like this. Especially his _biggest fan_ , who's just royally pissed him off. He turns and begins creeping further down between the shelves.

"YET YOU SPEAK OF THE ALMIGHTY IN THE MOST DISRESPECTFUL TERMS!" 

"We… We mean you no _harm_ ," Zedika says, voice wavering and hands raised to placate. That's a laugh, considering how much harm Heaven very much _did_ intend the last time (they thought) they had Aziraphale in their clutches. "Please, if you would just listen, you have been lied to, Guardian—"

" _Stop calling me that!_ " Aziraphale howls, and despite the hurricane of his voice he at least sounds more like himself again: the holy wrath dimming slightly with his age-old shame, millennia of wondering if he'd done the right thing or bollocksed everything up from the beginning, his first act of defiance, of _deceit_ , wrapped up in the desire to do good, to care and protect, leading to thousands of years of grief and self-doubt – and that, maybe more than anything yet, makes Crowley snarl, his fingers curling into talons and itching for some angelic throats to tear out. "I _know_ I failed at the Garden, it was my first assignment on Earth, you needn't keep _throwing it in my face—_ "

"You protected the young ones!" Zedika cuts him off, voice rising desperately, and Aziraphale finally stills.

Crowley pauses as well, looking back over his shoulder. The bookshelves mostly block them from view now, except for where he can see Aziraphale's aura glowing above him, and the tips of his wings, bright white and liable to start taking out the physical structure of the shop if he's not careful. Turning away again, he continues further back, avoiding the creakiest floorboards with practiced ease.

"The… ' _humans_ ,'" Zedika is saying. "You have cared for them, and protected them, even from… from other 'angels.' That is your only task, and you have excelled at it, against enormous odds." They pause then, heavy breathing audible even from where Crowley is, all the way down inside the shop where the narrow aisles of close-pressed shelves finally give way to a crossroads of sorts, and he can slip around to the next section.

When Aziraphale doesn't strike – or reply – Zedika goes on, voice softer, "Where we come from, you would be endlessly praised for how the… the 'mortals' on this planet have flourished under your care." Aziraphale is silent, and Zedika takes a breath, before finishing in a quiet murmur, "Some might not think it, but to be a Guardian is a noble calling, a high honor among our kind."

 _Laying it on a little thick,_ Crowley thinks, and catches Kinaa rolling her eyes as well, just as he rounds the corner into the aisle where she's sitting and rushes up on her, striking with a speed to put a black mamba to shame.

But not fast enough, apparently: Kinaa looks up at the last second, dodges, kicks out at his knee, and an instant later she's in the air, shooting upward into the atrium at the center of the bookshop. Crowley gives a furious growl and follows, his own wings unfurling around him, black as night and larger still than either of these blessed angels. There isn't enough room in here to really stretch out, nor to actually take flight, but luckily physics are only optional for beings like them, and his will alone is enough to launch him upward after his quarry.

"Crowley—!" Aziraphale gasps from below, snapping back into himself, while Zedika cries, "Kinaa! What are you doing?!"

"He attacked me!" Kinaa shouts back, and doesn't quite manage to dodge Crowley's next grab for her – but then she twists in midair, battering him in the face with the hard bone of one wing, and then the wing is followed by a sharp elbow connecting to his nose, and she slips out of his grasp. 

The angel comes to land on the first-floor railing, perching on it with her hands between her feet, clearly ready to take off once more at the slightest provocation. Crowley sets down across from her, standing on the railing and wrapping an arm around the pillar beside him, teeth bared through the blood he can feel pouring from his nose.

"Stop, stop!" Zedika calls from down below. "We did not come here to fight—"

"No, you came to _lie_ , and, and—" Crowley snarls down at them, then, his words failing him, he turns his gaze on Aziraphale instead. "Angel, it'ss a trap! They're trying to get you to Fall!"

"The thought had occurred to me," Aziraphale sighs, glaring down at Zedika. So he'd seen through the crooning little fan act too – of course he had, Aziraphale's not stupid, nor overly motivated by pride, by having his ego stroked, and, and—

 _And he's **mine** ,_ some part of him crows, the jealousy and possessiveness surging in a moment of dark triumph before Crowley can wrestle them back under control.

"Fall?" Kinaa asks, cocking her head at Crowley with a frown. "How can he fall? He is standing on the ground already."

"No, no," Zedika moans, shaking their head, hands in their hair. "This is all wrong."

"Thwarted your plan already, huh?" Crowley grins down at them, showing far too many teeth and every one of them sharpened to a point and no doubt set off nicely by the blood on his face. "Not much of one, if you thought that was all it would take."

"Really," Aziraphale agrees, and his wings rise a little, his aura beginning to glow with anger again. "As if a little flattery would be enough to shake my faith in the Almighty God!"

"My intention is not to deceive you!" Zedika insists.

"I still do not understand what they are speaking of!" Kinaa puts in, her voice rising petulantly. 

Zedika sighs, closing their eyes for a moment. "They… They do not mean to fall as from a height," they finally respond, sounding pained as they look up at her. Crowley snarls down at them, because, yeah, _actually_ , literally falling _was_ a significant part of it. "It is how they refer to the Change here."

"What?" Aziraphale asks, drawing Zedika's gaze back to him. 

Across the atrium from him, Kinaa gives a short laugh. "You actually think that hearing the truth will Change him?" she asks, directing it at Crowley, and shakes her head as she shifts to sit on the railing instead, legs dangling over the side and dark wings a counterbalance behind her.

"Like the Change that made Crowley as he is, yes," Zedika answers Aziraphale down below, their voice soft once more.

"He is a _Guardian_. Being stuck in his ways is part of his molecular makeup," Kinaa sneers, and Crowley can't decide which of them to pay more attention to, the one up here who's clearly itching for a fight as much as he is, or the one slowly inching up on his angel on the ground floor. He feels wrong-footed, his delight and triumph at having seen through their plot short-lived as they seem to have switched to a new, even more nonsensical tack. "He _cannot_ Change," Kinaa is still speaking, almost chortling, shaking her head, "not like us."

Crowley freezes, his gaze snapping up to stare at her.

Below, he hears Aziraphale echo quietly, dangerously, "…'Us'?"

"Yes— but— Please, I must explain—" Zedika stops their attempt to close in on Aziraphale and begins backing away again instead, wings mantling around themself defensively as Aziraphale starts to glow once more.

"I _knew_ it," Crowley hisses, narrowing his eyes at Kinaa as he spreads his wings, readying to launch himself at her again. "I knew I senssed sssomething demonic about you!" 

"No!" Zedika cries. "We are not— not part of this system, this dichotomy, we—"

He should have trusted his instincts, Crowley seethes, should have paid attention to all the signs staring him in the face, so what if they're not walking piles of detritus like Hastur or so many other wankers from down Below, having a little hygiene doesn't change anything, by that standard Crowley wouldn't be a demon either – and now they're here, inside all of Aziraphale's carefully constructed wards, and Crowley _still doesn't know who they are_ , or who sent them, or _why_ , why they would be pushing this _insane_ story about God not being God, or—

Looking bored, Kinaa rolls her eyes yet again and flicks her wrist towards the open air of the atrium. Crowley has a fraction of a second to brace himself, Aziraphale's name just barely beginning to form in the back of his throat, but there's no _time_ , whatever she's doing it's too late, and Aziraphale isn't _actually_ immune to hellfire, he can already smell the books burning around him, can feel the choking emptiness of a world without Aziraphale in it—

But instead of a pillar of flame ripping through the bookshop to consume them all, there's a sort of soft tearing sound, like tissue paper – or perhaps Crowley _feels_ this tearing more than he hears it, a full-body shudder running through him, nerve endings lighting up – and then the space in the center of the atrium is taken up by a large, shimmering orb floating in midair.

"We tried it your way," Kinaa says, leaning forward on the railing to look down at Zedika, "but conversation has proved ineffective. It is time to _show_ him instead." And then she looks back at the ball in the air, and the shimmer begins to resolve itself into an image: a city, with towering buildings made of stone and gleaming metal, under a clear sky that grows a hazy, dusky red at the horizon – nowhere Crowley has ever seen on Earth, he’s sure in an instant. As he watches, the humans in the city go about their day, apparently unaware of whatever scrying-glass Kinaa has opened up in their midst – and then, he realizes, walking and sometimes flying amongst them, in full view of the mortals, are dozens, scores, _hundreds_ of angels.

"What…?" Aziraphale breathes, staring up at the image, his glowing aura quietened once more and his wings drooping around him in shock. "What is this?" 

"This is Natiaa," Zedika tells him, the warm smile obvious in their voice. "Our home." 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the perfect seduction, the one thing these demons could offer him that might possibly distract him for even a second from their blaspheming… 
> 
> And of course, there's the catch: the only world where Aziraphale can have what he wants is one in which he rejects God and Falls into damnation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be my favorite chapter so far

"You…" Aziraphale sounds faint, and without looking – because Crowley _can't_ look, he can't tear his gaze away from the teeming city in the image before him, how the angels and humans seem to live entirely side by side, interacting and intermixing apparently without a care in the world – Crowley knows that his round face will have drained of color, blue eyes wide, nonplussed as he stares upward into Kinaa's shimmering, impossible window. "You said… 'where you come from'…"

"Natiaa," Zedika repeats. "It is a world not very unlike yours, here, but…" They inhale slowly. "It is as this world once was. As this world should have been."

"But— But this is— This is—" Aziraphale sounds close to tears.

Crowley squeezes his eyes shut, shakes himself. It looks so _real_ , but— "It's a _trick_ , angel!" he grinds out, and opens his eyes again to glare across at Kinaa over the top of the illusion she's conjured. "'People like you,'" he spits, echoing Zedika's words and looking down at the pair below, "because they're _not_ like you. They're _demons_ – they'll say anything to get you to listen to them."

Anything, no matter how unlikely – like that acting as a guardian for mankind is some great, praiseworthy honor in this mystical land they hail from.

Aziraphale blinks slowly, his gaze taking a long moment to find Crowley's, to pull himself away from the enchanting picture they've painted of this other, impossible world. Aziraphale's eyes are shining, an uncertain quiver to his lip, and Crowley hates himself a little more than usual in that moment. He's never really said it, but Crowley knows anyway: his angel wants, perhaps more than anything, to be accepted as he is, to be _valued_ , for his efforts all these centuries on Earth to _mean_ something. It's the perfect seduction, the one thing these demons could offer him that might possibly distract him for even a second from their blaspheming… and Crowley is the one who has to rip that away from him now, has to remind Aziraphale that all Heaven has ever held for him is contempt. And until God Herself comes down to give the Archangels a thorough talking to, nothing is going to change that.

And of course, there's the catch: the only world where Aziraphale can have what he wants is one in which he rejects God and Falls into damnation.

"The terms this world uses are entirely nonsensical," Kinaa sighs, shaking her head. "We are not 'demons' – and neither are you."

"Oh, right, I just _imagined_ all those millennia in Hell," Crowley snarls at her.

Kinaa frowns, and for the first time since pulling her into the bookshop he can see something other than haughty determination cross her face – something almost hesitant and unsure.

"Do not make light of it!" Zedika snaps from down below, glaring up at Kinaa, and then she turns to Crowley. "She does not fully understand the theological system of this place, or its implications," they say, apologetic.

Kinaa returns the glare with one of her own. "I have had more important tasks to fill my time than studying the false belief systems of the enslaved!"

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!" Crowley demands. 

Kinaa looks across at him, blinking a few times in apparent bemusement, and then finally says, "Oh. You invoke copulation as an intensifying term. How odd."

"This is quite a complex ruse," Aziraphale comments then, drawing their attention back to him. He seems to have regained his composure, his expression hardening and eyes clear once more, if a tad colder than Crowley is used to seeing them. His wings fade out of the material realm as he folds his hands behind his back and then takes a casual step towards Zedika – too casual, though Crowley's the only one who would recognize the subtle bullying that's most often used on the likes of mafia men and customers. "You're regular anthropologists, aren't you?"

"Alien anthropologists," Crowley snorts, and then remembers his broken nose with a wince, reaches up to fix it, "from another planet."

"It— It is no ruse," Zedika replies, stumbling back a step as Aziraphale slowly advances, clearly still wary of his holy wrath from just a few minutes ago. 

"Not just another _planet_ ," Kinaa scoffs, replying to Crowley, and he looks up to scowl at her.

"You have freed yourselves from the control of Heaven and Hell," Zedika goes on, "and we have come to free you from their _influence_ as well. To— To bring you the _truth_."

"Ah," Aziraphale says, smiling slightly and continuing to herd the demon before him, "not anthropologists, but missionaries, then?"

"Oh, what?" Crowley growls at Kinaa. "Let me guess, you're from a whole other _galaxy_ too?"

She smirks. "Your conception of reality is far too limited."

"We— _No_ ," Zedika insists, shaking their head as they continue to back away from Aziraphale. "It is not a matter of religious conversion, but of— of—” They falter for a moment, and then say, "It is more akin to humanitarian aid. We wish to help deprogram you from the… the _cult_ that had brainwashed you."

"Hm," is all Aziraphale says, though Crowley can read the outrage in every tense line of the angel's shoulders, in how his hands clench behind his back. Then, sharp blue eyes no doubt watching Zedika's feet as the liar continues to backpedal until they are in the precise center of the atrium, directly under Kinaa's floating bubble, Aziraphale raises one hand and snaps his fingers.

Immediately, the circle scrawled into the floorboards there begins to glow, its bright white light shining up through the antique rug it's hidden underneath. Zedika gasps and stumbles again, but they run into a solid wall of force behind them, not so much as a single feather able to escape the circle. 

Crowley grins. Turning Aziraphale's old line of communication with Heaven into a quick-activating devil's trap had been one of his ideas. No long rituals and _definitely_ no candles needed, and in the blink of an eye they could bind nearly anyone Hell sent after them, rendering them not only immobile but essentially powerless.

Which just leaves one more hellion to deal with, he thinks, raising his gaze to grin across at Kinaa now. She's jumped to her feet, still balancing on the railing as she gapes in horror down at her now-trapped partner.

"You didn't really think we'd be unprepared for something like this, did you?" he asks, his voice a low growl, his smile widening inhumanly, teeth lengthening into fangs and eyes bleeding fully yellow behind his glasses. "That it'd be that _easy?!_ " he snarls, and launches himself off of the railing, barreling straight towards the illusion of their supposed alien planet, aiming for where Kinaa stands on the opposite side of it.

Kinaa takes flight as well, but instead of attempting to dodge and weave like before, she rushes towards Crowley, as if to meet him in the air for a head-to-head matchup.

Well, that's fine. He can take whatever this little imp thinks she can dish out – he wasn't chosen to be the very first demon on Earth for nothing, after all.

The illusion, however, doesn't shatter as he expected it to when Crowley flies headlong into the shimmering bubble. Instead, the image seems to expand around him, overtaking the bookshop entirely, stretching as far as his demonic sight reaches in every direction, and Crowley is left flailing, twisting in the air, trying to figure out what happened, where he is – and then Kinaa slams into his back.

"No, I _never_ thought it would be _this_ easy," she says right in his ear, her voice breathless, winded from the impact, as all six limbs – arms, legs, _and_ wings – wrap around him to send they both tumbling out of the red-tinged sky.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's eyes settle on the one other being still in the shop with him: the demon Zedika, who had tried to lie and trick and scheme, who thought they could outwit the Serpent of Eden, the original trickster, the— 
> 
> The now glaringly empty space by Aziraphale's side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, sorry this chapter is late! I slept in this morning and then before I knew it, it was 1pm and I still hadn't posted the next chapter :P
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read, commented, kudos'd, subscribed, etc. Every one of you puts a smile on my face n_n 
> 
> This time is a little detour into Aziraphale's pov; we'll pick up with Crowley again next week

Crowley lunges into the air above them, and Kinaa launches herself forward as well, as if to meet him in close combat right there in the middle of the bookshop. Obviously a bad idea; Aziraphale has full faith that Crowley will come out victorious in such a direct matchup, and, now that one of their visitors has been seen to, he's prepared to offer what assistance he can without harming his friend in the crossfire. 

He has just enough time before they collide to wonder if – or rather, to _hope that_ – their hypothesizing about the demon trap will prove true: that, as it was designed only to hold one demon at a time, and generally one standing within its confines, in contact with the floor on which it is inscribed when it is activated, Crowley flying over top of it won't result in him being trapped as well, and nor will he and Kinaa fighting above it overload the circle and end up releasing Zedika.

He needn't have bothered worrying, though, because Crowley flies into the floating orb Kinaa had conjured and doesn't emerge out the other side. Half an instant later, Kinaa follows, also apparently disappearing within the orb, and then, before Aziraphale can so much as blink, the ball shrinks and pops out of existence, leaving in its wake only empty air and neither of the two airborne demons.

Aziraphale pauses. Stares. Looks around himself for a few moments. There isn't so much as a single black feather to suggest where Crowley might have gone. 

The bookshop is very, very quiet now.

Eventually, his eyes settle on the one other being still in the shop with him: the demon Zedika, who had tried to lie and trick and scheme, who thought they could outwit the _Serpent of Eden_ , the original trickster, the— 

The now glaringly empty space by Aziraphale's side.

"Where did they go?" he asks conversationally, even as something loud and clanging and very much like the fire brigade's bells begins sounding between his ears.

Zedika slowly lowers their gaze from where the illusory orb had been to look him in the face. "They have gone to Natiaa."

"Really now," Aziraphale says from between clenched teeth. The clanging in his head is growing louder. 

It's not as if he and Crowley haven't ever been apart these last months. They both have things to do. Projects of their own. Hobbies, as it were. They just— They haven't— It's not—

The image of the Archangels dragging Crowley away last summer comes rushing back to him now – well, it had looked like Aziraphale, but he'd known, of course. He'd known that might well be the last time he ever saw him, if their plan didn't work perfectly. But they had put themselves out there back then, out in the open, as bait, all but begging Heaven and Hell to move against them.

This time, Aziraphale had invited them inside.

It would be all too easy to simply lash out and smite Zedika where they stand, to send them back to Hell, or worse – but what he needs now, more than anything, is information. With a fair effort, he quietens the panicked alarms in his head. "Enough of this lie. We both know there's no such place, so you may as well—"

"There is!" Zedika cuts him off, surging up from where they had slumped against the circle's boundaries, voice rising with their sudden vehemence. "They went through the portal to our home world – as you saw yourself!"

Aziraphale frowns, blinking down at them. Yes, of course it was a portal, not merely a conjured image as he – and, apparently, Crowley – had previously assumed. "I did see them go through the portal, yes," he says slowly, voice hard. "I would like to know _where_ that portal took them, and what they plan to do with Crowley now that they have him there." 

Somewhere in Hell, for the former question, no doubt, and something terrible, for the latter. Perhaps another holy water bath, or perhaps more inventive tortures, as Hell ought to still be under the impression that their execution attempt had been ineffective. 

Either way, Aziraphale is going to save him.

"You _saw_ where it took them," Zedika says again, shaking their head and wrapping their arms about their middle, wings mantling up around them. "It was an open doorway, just as— as—" They look around, and finally finish, gesturing, "As looking down between these bookshelves, you can see what lies beyond them, and where you would come out were you to walk through them."

Aziraphale closes his eyes for a moment, frustration simmering, and then snaps his fingers. When he opens his eyes again, what lies at the end of the aisle Zedika had indicated now appears to be a beautiful sandy beach, with crystalline clear water lapping gently at the shore and palm trees swaying in a light breeze. He may not be as creative as Crowley is – this place is no invention of his own, but rather somewhere he saw in an advertisement a few months ago, in the deep of winter, and remembered it because he couldn't help thinking of how a certain serpent of his acquaintance might enjoy returning to such warm, sunny climes, how nice a holiday there might be, someday, if he ever gets up the courage to suggest it – but living on Earth for so long has certainly honed his ability to create illusions when necessary. The humans do tend to get ever so upset if they see too much, after all.

Zedika stares at the beach, eyes wide and mouth working uselessly, and then Aziraphale snaps again and it disappears, nothing but more bookshop visible once more.

"Now," he says, drawing Zedika's gaze back to him, "let's stop pretending you and your companion couldn't make that portal look like whatever you desired, shall we? _Where. Did. They. Go?_ "

Zedika's shoulders slump, their wings drooping as much as the tight confines of the devil's trap will allow. "I have told you the truth already. They have gone to Natiaa," they say, shaking their head. Then, after pausing for a moment, their voice growing ever more gentle somehow, "They will not harm him. You need not fear that. Kinaa acted rashly, but…"

"But?" he bites out. As if he'll believe any such reassurance, so obviously intended not actually to comfort him but only to lull him into complacency and stop him from mounting a rescue!

Zedika sighs. "But Crowley was, technically, the main target of our mission." They look up at him, and Aziraphale has to rein in his rising temper once more. Demons can use honesty to their advantage when it suits them, he reminds himself. _Of course_ Crowley was their real target; they might both be hated on all sides now, but Aziraphale is Heaven's problem at the end of the day. "I was the only one who thought it worthwhile to convince _you_ as well."

He turns away, hands clenching into fists at his sides. They had come to abduct Crowley, but Zedika had targeted Aziraphale – and he had fallen for it. He was the one who let them in here, who wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, to _hear what they had to say_ – and now look what's happened. "Well, you've certainly failed in that!"

"No," Zedika murmurs, "I have simply not _yet_ succeeded in convincing you."

"And what makes you so certain?" Aziraphale snaps, turning to glare down at them once more.

"Because we came here to bring you the truth," Zedika says, and their face is so very earnest as they meet his gaze, so open and pleading. 

Aziraphale shakes his head, turning his back again.

"Everything you believe about your world is built on a lie!"

"ENOUGH!" A little holy wrath bleeds into his voice again without his meaning it to, but he at least manages to keep his wings hidden away where they belong, this time. Zedika is cowering a bit when he turns back to them, finally seeming to grasp how very dire their current predicament is. 

"Tell me where Crowley is – or, better yet," he says, and forces a smile now. With some effort, he clears away the panic and anger and self-recriminations, and instead begins to exude a sense of calm and reassurance. He's only ever used this trick on humans before, but it might work here too, just a little nudge to help get the compliance he wants. Using their own tactics against them, he thinks sourly. "Better yet, take me to him."

Zedika's eyes widen. "You—"

"It'd be two traitors for the price of one!" he says, still smiling. He may not have been their initial target, but surely Hell wouldn’t say no to torturing an angel as well. Not that he intends to let that happen, of course – but if it gets him in the door, he can work out a plan to get them both out of there afterward, once he has a better lay of the land, so to speak. 

“I…” Zedika stares up at him, and then, slowly, shakes their head. “I cannot.”

Aziraphale blinks a few times. “But of course you can! That is, once I release you from the binding circle, you shall be able to, of course.” He smiles wider, all encouragement.

“It is not that simple.” Zedika slides down to sit on the floor within the circle, leaning back against the force field it creates as if against a wall, cushioned by their wings. 

“No, of course, I wouldn’t expect it to be,” Aziraphale is quick to agree. “We can stage it as a fight, if you like, rather than simply walking me into Hell with you – surely your bosses would be pleased with you for overpowering a Principality! And not just any Principality, I’d remind you,” he adds with a conspiratorial wink. 

Zedika only stares at him. 

Aziraphale looks away, clearing his throat. “It’s only…” he begins, and decides to try a different strategy. _‘Your boyfriend in the dark glasses’ indeed…_ What's the harm, if everyone Above and Below already think it of them? “It’s only, I know very well how to see when we've been beaten. Your partner there was very clever snatching Crowley away first; I’m quite useless without him, you see. And…” He lets his expression grow solemn, forlorn, staring down at his hands as if he’s imparting some terrible, painful secret. “And if it is to end this way, I… I just want to be able to see him once more.” He glances coyly down at Zedika and finds them watching him with a pained expression on their face. 

Right, of course: for all their earlier talk of his being deserving of respect and honor, he must remember that he is still speaking to a demon sent here to ensure his and Crowley’s violent destruction. If his dear Crowley snarls and sputters at any overt allusions to affection or his own supposed kindness, how much worse must the average demon respond to such things? 

So little reaction from them now actually shows a great deal of restraint, he must admit.

“I am sorry,” Zedika says, one hand rising to clench at the front of their jumper, where a thin gold chain disappears beneath the knitted material. “I cannot take you to him. But I can assure you this is not an ‘end’ – for either of you!”

“Oh, but—” Of course, they have no intention of killing Crowley quickly. He’ll be Hell’s new favorite chew toy for the next several centuries, at the very least. “But that just makes it more obvious why you must take me to him! Why, Crowley is so very strong, you know, I’m sure he can withstand any sort of the usual, _physical_ tortures Hell prefers – but psychologically, well.” He forces a smile onto his face once more, almost unable to believe the words coming out of his own mouth, his skin crawling at the very idea. “There would surely be nothing worse than forcing him – forcing either of us – to watch the _other_ come to harm.”

Zedika’s hand is white-knuckled around the necklace under their jumper, their eyes wide as they gape up at him. 

This has to be it, Aziraphale thinks; this has to work. Surely they will see the opportunity for what it is – and then they’ll take him to Crowley, and the two of them will do what they must to escape. 

Or, of course, he can’t help acknowledging the very _slight_ possibility that he might get exactly what he’s just argued for: an eternity of torture, and of watching Crowley be tortured. But at least they would be together, he thinks grimly. The one thing he will not do, not now or ever, is leave Crowley to suffer alone.

"So you see, we would both be getting what we want: I would be with Crowley, and Hell would be able to do whatever they liked with us. It would—"

“I—” Zedika starts loudly, cutting him off, and then shakes their head, squeezing their eyes shut. Aziraphale waits. “I do not know which to address first. No, it must be this,” they murmur, as if thinking aloud, and then meet his gaze again. “No one is torturing Crowley. I promise you, he will come to no harm in Natiaa. If… If anything, he will be treated as a refugee, and will receive whatever care and aid we can give him.”

Aziraphale huffs, looking away. So they’re back to this, then. Alien anthropologist missionaries from another planet!

“Second… I know it is painful to be parted from your mate,” Zedika goes on, and Aziraphale stills. When he looks down at them, the demon is looking at the floor, fingers skimming around the outline of whatever pendant lies beneath their jumper. “I am personally more familiar with that particular pain than most of my kind.”

Oh, now that's interesting. Do demons habitually take mates, then? Have they always? Do they mate for life? Did he know about any of that before? Had it simply slipped his mind? Has Crowley—

He stops that thought. Now is not the time. And it may very well be just another lie, in any case. Subtler than the previous one, at least, not outright presenting him with what he desires but merely mentioning it as a possibility, letting his mind fill in the rest – not that his imagination needs much prompting on that front, of course.

"But it changes nothing," Zedika goes on without looking up at him. "I am sorry for the outcome of today's events, and especially that you have been separated because of us. I would have preferred to approach you more cautiously and to ease you into hearing our message." Aziraphale holds back a derisive snort; no amount of caution or time would be enough to convince him to abandon his faith. "But Kinaa has always favored a more direct approach. And it may yet prove the most effective way. I am only sorry that it has caused you pain."

A direct approach… Yes, alright.

"Well," Aziraphale sighs, letting his shoulders sag. "I suppose we could keep going round and round like this for the next decade, but we're only wasting valuable time when I should be trying to find my way to Crowley." Which could be their plot, of course: keep him here, talking uselessly, while Crowley's trail goes cold. "So, if you won't help me, there doesn't seem to be much point in keeping you here any longer." And he raises his hand, fingers poised to snap—

"Wait!"

_Yes._

"Wait, please wait!" Zedika begs, one hand held up before them as they climb to their feet. His wording had been intentionally vague – had they not stopped him, he simply would have deactivated the circle binding them, as they're still more useful to him alive and in their current corporation than otherwise – but Zedika seems to have taken the most threatening meaning from his words. Ever so helpful, that. 

"I— I can bring him back to you," they say. "I _will_ bring him back. Just— Please." They swallow thickly, and Aziraphale is rather astonished to see that there are tears gathering in the demon's eyes. Such a superb performance! "Please, I…" The hand rises once more to clutch at their necklace. "I want to go home. I want to see my mate again. I will do whatever you ask – I will bring Crowley back to you and you will never have to interact us with again, just. _Please._ "

"Oh. Well. I appreciate that," Aziraphale responds, voice mild, while inside he is secretly thrilling at a job well done. "Of course I shall let you go. We'll consider it a sort of prisoner swap, shall we?"

Zedika only wraps their arms around themself again, hiccuping through their tears, but doesn't bother arguing the semantics with him any longer. Aziraphale raises his hand again, and Zedika closes their eyes, cringing, clearly still half-expecting him to smite them, but all that happens when he clicks his fingers is that the circle on the floor stops glowing, its power dissipating.

Zedika scrambles out of the devil's trap and clear off the rug at the first possible moment, and then stands there watching him, all sniffles and quivering wings.

"There, now," Aziraphale says, smiling and folding his hands behind his back again. "I think we managed to resolve this amicably enough. Well, off you go." And he makes a little shooing motion at them.

Zedika draws in a long breath, closing their eyes, but then nods, seeming to get ahold of themself once more. With a small wave of their hand, another portal opens up in the air beside them – more door-shaped than the bubble Kinaa had produced, and where hers had shown a high aerial view of their fictional city, Zedika's portal appears to instead be at ground level, looking up towards the buildings.

They step towards it, but then pause. "I am sorry," they say again, looking back at Aziraphale. "I—"

But Aziraphale is already rushing up behind them, barreling into the demon to drag them through the doorway together, lest this one close immediately behind Zedika as the previous had done with Kinaa.

"No no no, you cannot!" Zedika cries, but they're both already through to the other side. "I told you I would bring him to you! You must go back!"

"I know better than to trust the word of a demon when there's nothing holding you to your promise!" Aziraphale snaps. 

They shake their head at him, eyes wide, looking almost frightened as they push against his shoulders, trying to force him back towards the portal. "You cannot be here!"

"Well, apparently I can!" Aziraphale replies, glaring down at them, entirely unmoved by their efforts to shove him back – and that's when the pain hits.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's wings jerk and flap, unable to catch any of the air whistling up past them, while his hands reach back behind him, nails having lengthened into talons, to try to claw at leg and flank and abdomen, whatever he can reach, tearing into the pretty red dress he had so admired not half an hour earlier.
> 
> Fuck copying that dress, he decides. He'll take the original off Kinaa's bloody corpse and wear it as a trophy forever after this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're stepping back in time a little here, to when Crowley first went through the portal. So this is happening simultaneously with the events of the previous chapter.

Crowley _hates_ the feeling of falling.

Flying is great, flying is wonderful, he doesn't get to do it nearly often enough anymore, but he'd probably give up the ability to fly at all if it meant never again having to see the ground rushing up to meet him, his wings pinned and useless.

Of course, this time his wings are only _literally_ pinned, trapped by Kinaa's arms around him, not paralysed and non-functional as when he'd Fallen from Heaven, his form burning and consumed by too much agony to even scream. She'd taken him by surprise, tripped him up with the little trick with the portal, but that was a full second ago, and now he's just _incredibly_ pissed off. 

He snaps his head back, hoping to crack her in the nose or jaw, but she dodges, leaning her face out of the way, and he only clips her ear. His wings jerk and flap, unable to catch any of the air whistling up past them, while his hands reach back behind him, nails having lengthened into talons, to try to claw at leg and flank and abdomen, whatever he can reach, tearing into the pretty red dress he had so admired not half an hour earlier.

Fuck copying that dress, he decides. He'll take the original off her bloody corpse and wear it as a trophy forever after this.

"Stop— fighting—!" Kinaa growls, and one of her hands comes up to grapple around his throat and face, trying to still his movements, to choke and squeeze and—

Well. Why didn't he think of that?

The scales spread across his flesh with a rippling shiver, and even as Crowley's limbs melt away, his lengthening body writhes, twists up and around the other demon, first reversing their positions, trapping _her_ wings now, see how the bitch likes it, and then constricting, meters and meters of thick serpentine muscle all but wringing the life out of her.

"What are you _doing?!_ " Kinaa gasps, and then shrieks in pain when Crowley rears back and strikes her twice, in the face and shoulder, fangs sinking deep, pumping burning, necrotic venom into her corporation.

There's a sudden burst of light, of bright, reddish energy, searing cold. Crowley feels Kinaa's hold on him – or his hold on her, he's lost track – slip away, and then he is falling again.

His vision swims, the ground spinning nearer as gravity gets its grubby little hands on him, and, finally, he lands in a heavy heap of reptile. His vision is still blurred, swinging drunkenly, colors all wrong – the long grass all around him looks black, or maybe purple? Somehow?? – and his ears, such as they are in this body, are ringing as he tries to pull himself upright. He doesn't know whether it's this strange place or whatever blow he's just taken, whatever Kinaa _did_ to him, but the air, the very _sunlight_ tastes different here.

A beating of wings and a thump not far from him heralds the other demon catching up with him again. He tries to lift his head to hiss at her, but ends up only flopping pathetically over, exposing his red belly to the sky.

"Why, in all of creation," Kinaa pants, and though Crowley is having a hard time focusing on anything, he notes with satisfaction how she staggers and seems to be clutching at one limp arm, "would you choose a second form that is _unable to fly?!_ "

Crowley only hisses from his supine position, his body feeling slow and heavy, and maybe more than a little charred. Whatever she did to him, it was certainly effective. Almost feels like he'd got the wrong end of a holy weapon…

"Ranger!"

Kinaa jerks and looks up at this shout, and Crowley tries to follow her gaze but his vision only grows more hazy with each passing moment. 

More wingbeats, then the ground vibrates with several landings, feet running towards them – and then Kinaa steps in front of him, arms held out to the sides, her wings spreading as if to block him from view.

"Stop!" he hears her yell. "He is not a threat!"

The answering voices float in and out of focus, gradually growing nearer. He counts six sets of feet, six new voices, at least.

"…foreign Ranger…?"

"…Crowley of Teresiel. My mission… became necessary…"

"…Unfortunate…"

"…Zedika…?"

"…have to tell Anra…"

"…bring him… healer…"

He doesn't even have the strength to resist when several sets of hands reach down and lift him onto what feels like a sort of stretcher, though he does manage to hiss and snap at any fingers that come too near his face. Even that effort costs him, though: soon, the murmuring voices of Kinaa and these newcomers fade entirely to static and he loses his last tenuous grip on consciousness.

* * *

When Crowley next wakes, he feels… weak. No, not just weak, not just like he's had his arse kicked to Hell and… well, not _back_ , but to Hell and somewhere else in Hell – no, he feels _powerless_.

He's still in his snake form, coils piled atop a sort of mattress, squashy and raised up into the center of the room. There's nothing to see on the blank grey ceiling, or any of the walls, so he musters some will to move and manages to flop over enough to get a look down at the floor. Just as he'd suspected: surrounding his bed is a demon trap, not unlike the one inscribed in the floor of the bookshop. And maybe his sight still hasn't fully recovered, but the runes here look slightly off, slightly different from what he'd expect to find. 

The strange, not-quite-Enochian dialect Kinaa and Zedika speak comes to mind again.

Still, the binding circle seems effective enough.

He looks up, looks around. He actually _can_ look around, which was more than he could do when they'd knocked him out. So he's been unconscious long enough to begin healing on his own, even with his powers strangled as they are… Or… 

There aren't any random machines beeping like he's seen on telly, and the devil's trap is enough to keep him on the bed without the aid of railings, but something about this place, maybe the lighting, the soft voices out in the hallway, some scent in the air, is unmistakable: he's in hospital. Not many of those in Hell, except for those poor sods who have a particular horror of medically-themed torture, of which Crowley isn't one. So why? Why bring him here, why heal him, or at least leave him alone long enough to allow him to heal himself?

One answer presents itself all too easily, and he shudders away from the thought that they want him alert and relatively whole, at least enough so that he can feel _every_ , _single_ thing Hell intends to do to him.

He hears footsteps coming nearer in the hall, and then the door to his room, already partially ajar, pushes further open, admitting a winged figure. Not Kinaa, though that does nothing to reassure him. No reason to expect the kidnapper would also be the torturer; that's a specialty job in Hell, not something they let just anyone do.

This person is tall and broad, stocky, nothing like the skinny little toothpick of a demon who had lured him here. Their pale, rose gold colored wings are tucked close against their back, contrasting sharply with their jet black hair, the tight curls cropped almost down to the scalp. Inexplicably, something about them reminds him of Aziraphale, though there's nothing soft or comforting about this figure, nothing of the sincere, sweet, absolute dorkiness of his angel. But it's… something…

"I thought I sensed you reawakening," they say, closing the door behind them and making their way towards Crowley's bed, hands swinging loosely at their sides. Then, the next moment, a golden clipboard appears in their hand; they make a note on it and then look down at him. "How are you feeling?"

Crowley merely curls tighter into himself, considers adding a threatening rattle to the tip of his tail, but settles for baring his fangs in a warning hiss instead of wasting what little energy he currently has on needlessly changing his form.

His captor knits their brows, frowning down at him. "Are you unable to speak, or simply unwilling?"

Crowley tucks his fangs away, but keeps up his best snakey glare. So the interrogation begins. Let them think he can't speak when he's like this, let them underestimate him, assume he's too weak or too damaged or whatever they like, and then eventually they'll let their guard down, and he'll seize his chance to strike, to escape, to get back to Aziraphale…

"Kinaa reported that you were able to understand her," they murmur, looking down at their clipboard once more. Then, with a furtive glance towards the door, they vanish the clipboard and step closer, stopping just beyond the borders of the demon trap. "She also reported," they say, voice dropping, "that a Guardian of your world had imprisoned the Ranger Zedika." 

Now, that… That is odd. Certainly not something he'd expect to see in the Hell Crowley knows and hates. Why, back in his day, a demon who got themself captured by the other side would be ridiculed, laughed at – if anyone even noticed they were gone in the first place. A smug 'good riddance' from their fellow demons was fairly par for the course as reactions went. And if they ever made it out again, they'd need to make quite the bloody show of it, or else become Hell's designated weakling, fair game for anyone who fancied a bit of rough sport until they could re-establish some semblance of a Not To Be Fucked With reputation.

Crowley can count on one hand – when he has hands – the number of demons he's ever known to care about another of their kind enough to get all threatening and looming about them being held prisoner somewhere. Fuck's sake, _Crowley_ has never felt that way for another demon, and he's about as soft-hearted as they come, these days.

So. This is interesting. Maybe he doesn't need to play almost-dead after all, not when they've just given him such an opening.

"Yeah," he grins, and flickers his tongue at them, scales whispering against each other as he sprawls across the bed. "Azzziraphale caught the sstupid little liar without even trying. Why, I'd bet he'sss having a grand old time _burning_ all the evil out of 'em as we ssspea-hrk—!"

Without warning, his captor reaches across the circle of the demon trap, and strong fingers close around his neck, just behind his skull. He thrashes, body and tail hitting the solid wall that the trap makes around him, while his head is lifted up by the grip around his throat, pressing Crowley's face against the edge of the trap as against a clear window, bringing him eye to eye with the other demon – except that that movement draws their arm back out of the circle, _which a demon shouldn't be able to do_ , which means pale wings bright aura weirdly reminds him of Aziraphale _fuck fuck **fuck** they're an **angel**!_

"You are fortunate the Guardians’ blast did not destroy you outright when they thought you were an invader. And _I_ healed you," the angel says, words steady, bitten off, "because it is my _duty_. But if any harm comes to Zedika, I swear to you, there is not a healer in this or any other world who would be able to reconstruct your essence after what I will do to you."

They fling him back down onto the bed, withdrawing entirely, and turn their back on him to pace to the far end of the room.

Crowley watches, taking in the shaking hands, the tightly-held wings, while he catches his breath, checks internally for any broken bones, any serious tissue damage… There's nothing, though, just the barest hint of what might potentially become a bruise, and even that is healing quickly, ruptured capillaries knitting themselves back together in mere moments.

The angel could have crushed his windpipe without a second thought, could have discorporated him on the spot, he knows. But, for some reason, they didn't. _Why?_

And, more to the point: why is there an angel in Hell? Or, if this actually _isn't_ Hell, why would a demon like Kinaa bring him to an angel?

…Because Heaven and Hell are still working together to bring him and Aziraphale down. Obviously.

Crowley just hopes Aziraphale figures it out faster than he did himself, and that he keeps that little imp trapped exactly like they should be, unable to call for help or pass on any intelligence. 

"Why do you care?" he finally coughs out, unable to help himself. Working together against common enemies is one thing, but… "You're an angel. Your lot are usually the ones doling out the harm to us demons, not threatening to avenge it."

"As you have just suggested this Aziraphale is doing?" they shoot back, and Crowley frowns, curling down into himself once more. The angel sighs, rubs a hand over their short fuzz of hair, and finally turns to face him again. "I am likely the only person in this world who understands at all what you have been saying," they tell him then, folding their arms over their chest, "about 'angels' and 'demons.' We do not use those terms here. And all that I know on the subject is only because Zedika talks so endlessly about this mission, especially when they grow passionate about the things they have studied in the course of it." This last is said with a small smile down at the floor, but then the angel's dark eyes snap up to meet Crowley's again, and the smile vanishes. 

"To answer your question, Crowley of Teresiel," they say, glaring across the room at him, "I _care_ because Zedika is my _mate_. And if any harm comes to them, you need not worry about the parasite laying waste to your world – I will do it myself." 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I _built_ stars, you moron," Crowley hisses. "I painted entire galaxies across the sky, and you think I would be fooled by such an obviously fake star chart? There's nowhere that looks like that in the entire universe!"

"Nuh— Wha— You—" Crowley can only gape at them. Demons don't— _Angels_ don’t— Demons and angels _certainly_ don’t _together—_

Aziraphale would never…

Mates. They called Zedika their _mate_. Not partner, or spouse, or, or… _Mates_ , like, like fucking… like some kind of… of animal… 

“What’d you call me?” he finally goes with, as his brain continues to refuse to process the rest of what the angel had said.

They blink once, their frown turning quizzical. "Crowley? Zedika was sure that was your name…"

"No, the—" He shakes his head, almost considers growing eyelids just so he can squeeze his eyes shut, maybe try to get a grip on the _insanity_ coming at him. "The other thing."

The healer blinks again, and then they seem to understand. Sighing, they unfold their arms and begin coming closer again, seeming to mutter something along the lines of, "Even this has been taken from you…" The angel stops at the edge of the binding circle once more and looks down at Crowley with a frown – though there's none of the righteous fury present on their face now that was there a minute ago. "Teresiel," they say, "is the name of our nearest neighboring world, from which Kinaa brought you here."

"You mean the Earth?" Crowley hisses up at them, and they only frown more deeply, tilting their head slightly. Then, it clicks: _Terra_ , the Earth's proper name, if it can be said to have one. "So we're sticking with the alien planet line, are we?" he sneers. It's the same thing Zedika and Kinaa had tried to feed him and Aziraphale back in the bookshop: a mystical, picture-perfect alien planet that's definitely not just some bizarre ploy Hell and Heaven have come up with to get a jump on him and Aziraphale. 

He can't fault their consistency, at least.

"And where exactly is this wonderous world of yours located?" he asks then, even as he allows his coils to spread farther across the hospital bed, lounging insouciantly – and, as it just so happens, testing the boundaries of his prison. 

The angel looks confused, then slowly shakes their head. "I cannot tell you. Like most Guardians, I have never been beyond the borders of my home."

"And, what, you don't have maps here?" Crowley snaps. "Pull up a star chart! You're the one trying to convince me this isn't just some heavenly holodeck bullshit, so act like it! Gimme your best evidence that I should believe a word you've been telling me!"

The angel still looks dubious, but, while Crowley's tail prods further around the circle behind him, they gesture into the air and a glowing, three-dimensional star chart appears beside them.

Crowley stills, staring.

"This is Natiaa," the angel says, and then points at one dot amongst thousands, this one glowing faintly red. "We are here."

Crowley weaves his head as far in one direction as the circle will allow him, then the other. It doesn't help. Maybe his perspective is wrong, maybe if they rotate the whole thing…? No, he can already visualize it, and it wouldn't change a thing.

Crowley doesn't recognize _anything_.

"Nicccce try," he growls, opening his mouth to bare his fangs once more. "Did you lot forget to do your homework, or are you just that bloody stupid? As if you could trick me with something like that! _Me!_ "

The angel scowls at him. "I have showed you what you asked for—"

"I _built_ stars, you moron," Crowley hisses. "I painted entire galaxies across the sky, and you think I would be fooled by such an obviously fake star chart? There's nowhere that looks like that in the entire universe!"

His captor blinks, and then something shifts in their expression. "Oh… I see."

"Yeah, you _sssee_ , now, huh?" Then, dropping his voice to a congenial, almost conspiratorial level, he asks, "Did they jusst ssend you in here completely unprepared? Didn't even brief you on who you'd be interrogating?" He flickers his tongue at them again, body and tail still trailing slowly around the circle. He hasn't yet found any weak points he can use, but there's got to be _something_. "Poor little angel, bet they didn't even tell you I'm immune to holy water." The angel's gaze sharpens at that, their brows pulling together – so they have heard of Crowley, or heard about the botched executions, at least. Good. "You know, you could jusst walk away now, releassse me from here, no hard feelingss, I ssswear. Ssserve those higher-upss right for making you come in here all unawaresss…"

The angel watches him for a long moment, then says, "Why would I need to release you, if you are immune to Guardian-infused objects, as you claim? Free yourself." They gesture sarcastically towards the floor beside them, as if beckoning Crowley to exit the circle – but the demon trap holds firm. When he only glares up at them, the angel goes on, "For that matter, if you are so immune, why did you need my healing? Surely one such as yourself could not have been harmed by the Guardians who smote you… and yet here you are."

 _Shit,_ is all Crowley can think. "I— I never said I was immune to _everything—_ "

"It is all one and the same," the angel says, shaking their head, and then frowns down at him again, folding their arms. "I have not lied to you even once, Crowley of Teresiel. Why have you attempted to lie to me?"

" _Why?!_ " Something in their condescending, disappointed tone makes him snap. "Maybe because I've been kidnapped! And now I'm being held prisoner! And we both know you're gonna break out the torture any minute now! And Aziraphale is—"

He finally gets a hold on himself again, bites his tongue to stop the torrent of words giving away even more. Aziraphale is in danger. They know where he is, they have a demon inside the bookshop, and they have Crowley trapped. And this angel not only figured out that Crowley isn't really immune to holy water, but then got him to stupidly confirm it.

Which means they know Aziraphale also isn't immune to hellfire.

The angel takes a half step back, looking repulsed. "Despite what you have suggested about how your Aziraphale is treating Zedika, there shall be no torture here, in the next few minutes or any other time."

"Oh, right," Crowley drawls, poking a little more frantically at his prison with his tail, "you lot probably call it ssomething else. 'Divine dissscipline,' maybe? No wait, I know: 'Enhanccced interrogation.'"

"I am a _healer_ ," the angel starts, sounding almost angry, almost _offended_ at the _mere suggestion!_ Like they definitely didn't threaten to wipe him from existence just a few minutes ago! If they were wearing pearls, they'd be clutching them about now, he thinks – but then they're interrupted by raised voices and running footsteps out in the hallway.

The door bursts open a moment later, revealing another angel, if the pale pink wings are anything to go by. "Anra! You must come!" they pant.

"What is it? What has happened?" his captor, Anra, demands, dropping her arms and straightening her posture.

"Zedika has returned," the other angel replies.

 _No._

Both angels look down at Crowley, as if they can hear his thoughts, as if they can sense the dark and the cold surging up around him, the scent of burning paper overwhelming him, because if that demon got free… if they managed to get past Aziraphale's trap, if they overpowered him, if they've _come back here_ , then— then—

"A Guardian from Teresiel came through with them," the second angel is saying, their gaze returning to Anra.

What?

"What?!" Anra gasps. 

That wonderful, stupid, _alive_ bastard. He'll deal with the fact that they've apparently also captured Aziraphale later; right now he's just _not dead!_

Anra looks back at Crowley again. "You must come with me," she says, and snaps her fingers. All at once, several meters and several hundred pounds of demonic serpent go tumbling to the ground off the sides of the bed, suddenly released from the magical confines Crowley had been resting more and more of his weight against. "Wings will be necessary," she says, moving towards the door after the other angel and frowning down at Crowley where he's sprawled dazedly all across the floor.

"What? What are you—?" They're just… letting him go? No, this is some trick, playing mind games, he's going to try to make a break for freedom and run headlong into some new, worse trap.

"Your wings! Now!" Anra barks, and before he really knows what he's doing, Crowley is standing on two feet again and his wings are open and flared defensively around him. "Time is of the essence!" Anra says, beckoning to Crowley to follow her out into the hall. "If your mate is here, then we may have only minutes to save him."

"My— What—?"

"Aziraphale!" Anra snarls, glowering back at him as the three of them take off running down the hallway, as though he's being purposely obtuse. "Every moment he spends here harms him!" Then, at his no doubt confused, doubting expression, she shakes her head but doesn't break stride, and says, "He is _dying_ , Crowley!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't know how this figures in to their capture, interrogation, and torture, but he's not about to pass up the chance to hold onto Aziraphale, not if the angel might really be dying, if these might really be their last moments together.
> 
> "I'm here, angel," Crowley whispers, curling over their joined hands to look down at his oldest friend. "I've got you."

Crowley follows the angels down the hallway and through a set of doors leading outside – to a short ledge and a sheer drop. They're some six stories up, the humans below nothing but little toy soldiers milling about on the ground, but Anra takes to the sky without missing a beat, the other angel close behind her, and so Crowley merely sniffs and leaps out after them.

He half expects to go plummeting to the ground the moment his wings unfurl. They've already subjected him to falling once since kidnapping him; now, with the urgent need to get to Aziraphale added in, the torture of being so handicapped would only be that much sharper.

His wings successfully catch the wind, though, just as they have every time he's flown in the last six thousand years, carrying him after the other two. They soar over successive rows of lower buildings, which begin to thin and peter out the further they go, and it occurs to him then: both angels are ahead of him. A quick glance behind shows no one following, no one pacing them from either side, or above or below. 

He could make a break for freedom right this moment, and they'd have a heaven of a time catching him again. 

They could be lying about Aziraphale, after all. Just like they're lying about whatever this place is, and whoever they all are, and why they've really brought him here. Laying another trap for Crowley, another illusion. Wouldn't put it past them.

But… But if his angel really _is_ here, though… No, he can't risk it.

Up ahead, Anra puts on another burst of speed, and Crowley makes sure to keep pace with her.

The city falls away entirely behind them, buildings at last giving way to a wide area of dark, barren earth. Or— No, not _barren—_

He follows Anra and the other angel as they begin to dive towards a little knot of people down in what he is coming to realize is actually _grass_. Deep purple, nearly black, but grass all the same, swaying in the slight breeze and covering the area of what he had initially taken, from the air, to be a great, burnt crater.

It's actually more of a field, an open park in the center of the city, and he's sure, suddenly, that this is where he and Kinaa had come through before. He'd thought the odd look to the grass had just been a side effect of whatever power had hit him then, just his befuddled serpent eyes lying to him, but no. It's really _purple_.

They hit the ground running, Anra in the lead, and Crowley steels himself as she yells for the crowd to move out of the way. He's prepared to be confronted with the sight of Aziraphale beaten and bloody, dismembered, disemboweled, smoldering with hellfire, or, hell, Fallen and cursing his name, cursing the day he ever met the despicable demon _Crawly_ , braces himself for what is likely to be only the very first image he'll have to see of his angel dying, the first of many…

The angels part before them, and there's Aziraphale, collapsed on the ground and curled into himself, ruining his favorite jacket with grass stains – _purple_ grass stains – his eyes squeezed shut and moaning softly as though he's only in a restless sleep. But there's not a scratch on him, at least, not a speck of blood. 

Which, okay, in Crowley's experience, just means the worst is still to come. After all, they can make him watch Aziraphale suffer and die over and over and over… No reason to start off with the main event, not when they have all of eternity to work up to the truly horrifying hallucinations.

…Unless, of course, Aziraphale really _is_ here. Dying at Crowley's feet.

Which would mean the worst is already happening.

"Anra!" Kneeling in the grass by Aziraphale's shoulders, their face tear-streaked, is Zedika. "I could not stop him," the demon hiccups, casting a shifty look at Crowley before looking to the healer. "He forced his way through, I— I tried—"

"It is alright," Anra says, her tone soothing, as she too kneels next to the unconscious angel. "It will be alright now."

And then they both look expectantly up at Crowley as he comes to a stop beside Anra.

"What the _fuck_ did you do to him?!" he snarls, and lunges for Zedika – because if they're here, then they got free of Aziraphale's binding circle somehow, meaning this _is_ real, Aziraphale is _really here_ , really _dying_ , and Crowley can't—

A strong hand catches him by his jacket collar before he can reach the other demon, and then Anra is hauling him back, kicking and snarling, while Zedika falls on their arse and scuttles back a little, eyes wide with fear. "There will be time for explanations later!" Anra snaps. "Right now, he needs you," she says, and Crowley finally meets her glare with his own. The hand on the back of his neck holds firm, while her other reaches for his wrist. When Crowley bares his teeth at her and struggles to get away, Anra growls, "Unless you _want_ him to die?"

He freezes, staring at her, then, still glowering, allows her to take his wrist and guide his hand…

…To rest on top of Aziraphale's open palm where it lies in the strange, dark grass.

"Crowley," Aziraphale whimpers, his face twisted in pain, but a moment later his fingers begin to curl slowly around Crowley's hand.

All around them, the crowd of watching angels seems to let out a collective breath. 

"Your other hand as well," Anra says, her voice softer now but no less authoritative, and for once Crowley simply does as he's told, taking up Aziraphale's free hand in his own. He doesn't know how this figures in to their capture, interrogation, and torture, but he's not about to pass up the chance to hold onto Aziraphale, not if the angel might really be dying, if these might really be their last moments together.

"I'm here, angel," he whispers, curling over their joined hands to look down at his oldest friend. "I've got you."

Aziraphale doesn't open his eyes, but his brows do lift slightly, some amount of recognition painting itself across his expressive face. Then he lets out a soft keening noise, and he seems to be subsumed by the pain once more.

"Perhaps your forehead as well," Anra says.

"What?" She's frowning hard down at Aziraphale when Crowley looks at her, but she meets his gaze after another moment.

"Press your forehead to his," she says, insistent, then adds, "or, if you have some other ritual greeting, whatever you usually do together – you must do something to ground him."

Crowley stares, doesn't know how to tell her that what they 'usually do together' is go out to fancy restaurants and squabble about historical events and the speed limit. Oh, and give giant two-fingered salutes to their former bosses in Heaven and Hell.

He doesn't think that's the sort of thing she has in mind.

"What the hell kind of healer are you," he mutters, but lets himself slither down into the grass beside Aziraphale, facing the angel, their hands held between them, and tips his face forward to lean his forehead against Aziraphale's.

And… nothing happens.

Crowley knits his brows, lets his sunglasses slip down his nose, feels himself going almost cross-eyed as he all but wills Aziraphale to open his eyes.

All he gets is another pained whimper, even weaker than the last.

"I do not understand," Anra says above them. "He should be stabilizing. And yet he only continues to fade…" 

Right, so this was all just a trick after all, make Crowley think he could somehow save Aziraphale at the last second with the power of _looove_ , only to have him die anyway. Then they'll drag him away for more torture and interrogation, then eventually let him think he can escape, that he can save Aziraphale again, only to fail again. Rinse, repeat, ad aeternum. He turns his head to snarl up at Anra, just in time to see her eyes go wide with some sort of realization.

"Zedika!" she cries, and the demon jumps, looking up from the pathetic display Crowley has made of himself on the ground. "You must open a doorway! Now!"

"What? Why?" Zedika asks, even as they raise a hand to do exactly that – and suddenly, there, in the air beside them, is London.

"You must get him home," Anra goes on in the same urgent tone, and then her hands are scooping up under Crowley's shoulders, levering him out of the grass.

"Oi!" He jerks away from her, pulling Aziraphale tight against him as he sits up, ready to bite the next person who comes too close.

"Go!" Anra cries, gesturing to the open portal. "There is nothing we can do for him here!"

 _'You're just letting us go?!'_ some incredulous part of Crowley wants to ask, but he knows better than to pass up this chance to escape, no matter how unlikely it may be. There'll be a catch, obviously, but maybe with a head start he can outrun them, or at least buy Aziraphale enough time that they'll both be strong enough to fight their way out, he thinks as he struggles to his feet, pulling Aziraphale's deadweight up with him.

"I have to—" he hears Zedika say behind him as he begins limping towards the portal.

"I know," Anra replies, then, even softer, "Be safe."

Crowley can't help it: his damned curiosity gets the better of him, and he glances back to see Zedika embracing the healer, murmuring quietly between them, their dark wings angled down to wrap low around Anra's waist, while the demon's smaller form is engulfed by pale rose-gold feathers.

He faces forward again, doesn't break stride, and they're almost there, and Aziraphale is whimpering his name, and then—

Then they're through, stumbling out into a filthy back alley in Soho. Crowley breathes a sigh of relief as the familiar sounds and smells of London overtake him, and adjusts his hold around Aziraphale's middle, the angel's head resting against his shoulder, white cloudfluff hair tickling his jaw. It'll be a small matter to get them back to the bookshop now, barely even qualify as a miracle, and he'll tuck his angel into his favorite armchair, and make him a cup of cocoa just the way he likes it, and they'll settle back into their routine, and Aziraphale will be fine, and they'll forget any of this ever happened, and—

An auburn head appears on Aziraphale's other side, just as the portal closes behind them with a pop.

"I will help you get him home," Zedika says, grasping Aziraphale's upper arm.

Aaaand there's the catch.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The image of Anra and Zedika wrapped around each other – quite literally, the demon's dark feathers contrasting sharply with the healer's pale ones – won’t leave him alone. The way they’d leaned into each other makes something hollow and aching open up behind his sternum, how they'd seemed pulled together like— like— like _gravity_.
> 
> Like shuffling towards the only other warm body around, the first friendly smile he’d seen in thousands of years, while rain began to fall on the desert all around them…

“Don’t you fucking touch him!” Crowley hisses, curling his arms around Aziraphale to pull him away from Zedika and turning to put himself between them. 

“I— I only want to help,” Zedika says, snatching their hand back. They wrap their arms around their middle, huddling back into their wings.

Crowley bares his teeth, but his next snappy retort is cut off by the angel stirring in his arms. 

“Uhn… Crowley?”

“Aziraphale,” he breathes, turning further away from the other demon to look down at his angel instead. Aziraphale’s hands, previously hanging all but limp, come up to grasp weakly at the back of Crowley’s jacket, and he slowly lifts his head, blinking with apparent effort. “You’re okay, you’re okay, we’re just 'round the corner from the shop.”

“What happened?” Aziraphale mumbles, releasing his grip around Crowley’s back with one hand to rub at his eyes. 

“You walked yourself into a trap is what, angel,” he grouses in reply, shooting Zedika a glare. He’s almost disappointed when Aziraphale begins to straighten up, no longer needing Crowely’s support so much, though the angel does leave one hand on his upper arm. 

“It— It was not—” Zedika starts to say, but Crowley cuts them off with a snarl. 

“I remember going through the portal,” Aziraphale says, still squinting his eyes and rubbing one temple as if against a headache – a real, painful headache, not the usual (adorably) exasperated reaction to something Crowley has said or done. “And then… I’m not sure. Everything hurt. It felt as though… As though my very essence were being slowly drawn out of me.”

Crowley frowns, but it’s Zedika who speaks next.

“You were cut off from your home world,” they say, voice soft, and both Crowley and Aziraphale look over at them. “Guardians cannot pass through worlds as we can. Not without…” But they trail off with a guilty look up at Crowley, their throat bobbing as they swallow. “I… I misjudged the situation. I apologize.”

“Oh, you ‘misjudged’?” Crowley growls, and takes a menacing step towards the other demon, half turning to press Aziraphale behind him. Zedika’s wings tremble slightly, but they otherwise hold their ground. “You bloody _did_ something to him, you little shit! D’you think we’re fucking _stupid?!_ There were other angels over there already! Don’t try to tell me it was just some unfortunate _happenstance_ , you probably poisoned him or something—”

Zedika is shaking their head, eyes wide and breathing hitched as they fall back a step. “Those were Guardians from _my_ world! Natiaa is their home. If they came here, they would have the same reaction as Aziraphale did there!” 

“Bollocks—” Crowley snarls, but a soft hand on his jaw silences him. Aziraphale tips Crowley’s face back towards him, leaning into Crowley’s space once more with his head drooping forward and eyes closed, looking pained. 

“Might we continue this discussion back at the bookshop?” he suggests, sounding short of breath, and sags against Crowley’s side with seeming relief when he winds his arm around the angel’s middle again. “It’s only, I should like to get off my feet for a bit, I think…”

“He needs rest,” Zedika agrees quickly, nodding, “and… and comfort…” Their voice trails off with another glance at Crowley, eyes darting from his face to the way he’s all but wrapped around Aziraphale and back again, and then there almost seems to be a blush spreading across their cheeks. They swallow again, straighten their spine, and say, “Please, I want to help. And explain. I… I owe you both at least that much.”

Crowley sputters, outraged, but Aziraphale nods, his cheek rubbing against Crowley’s collarbone as he does so, and that’s. Er. A bit distracting. “Fine,” Aziraphale sighs, flapping a hand dismissively. “Let’s just be on our way.”

Grumbling, Crowley gathers Aziraphale up tighter in his arms, helping the angel limp towards the sunlit road at the end of the alley where they’d come out of the portal. He has to fight more than usual to keep his wings tucked away, the urge to shield Aziraphale with them almost insurmountable, to put himself between his angel and the rest of the world. The image of Anra and Zedika wrapped around each other – quite literally, the demon's dark feathers contrasting sharply with the healer's pale ones – won’t leave him alone. The way they’d leaned into each other makes something hollow and aching open up behind his sternum, how they'd seemed pulled together like— like— like _gravity_.

Like shuffling towards the only other warm body around, the first friendly smile he’d seen in thousands of years, while rain began to fall on the desert all around them…

 _It’s not the same,_ he reminds himself savagely, and then, for good measure, looks back over his shoulder at the other demon. “Oi!” he barks, and Zedika jumps, looking up at him. “Are we going through this again? Put the wings away!”

They blink at him several times, and then slowly admit, "I… do not know how to do that."

Crowley can only stare, gaping stupidly, and he feels Aziraphale shift to look back at Zedika as well. 

"I have never done it before!" they cry, their face flushing anew. Folding their arms, Zedika adds, a touch defensively, "It is not our custom to hide what we are in Natiaa."

Aziraphale seems to ponder this for a moment, and then looks up at Crowley, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly.

"Oh, for sssomeone'ss sssake…" Crowley groans, tipping his head back – but they both know it's been centuries since he's even _tried_ to resist a look like that, and now with his angel's weight leaning warm and soft against him, hands clinging gently around his waist… He clicks his fingers, and a sort of glamour descends around the strange demon, a kind of _'nothing to see here'_ aura enveloping them. "Don't make any sudden moves," he warns Zedika, glaring back at them, "and _don't_ knock into anyone. I'm not wasting all my energy keeping you out of sight just to have to erase some memories along the way too." Not when he'd much rather spend his time and attention on getting Aziraphale well again… and then whatever's left over can be turned towards exacting revenge on the ones who put his angel in this state.

Without another word to the other demon, he adjusts his hold around Aziraphale and sets out towards the bookshop once more, Zedika trailing along behind them. Aziraphale sighs again and leans his head against Crowley's shoulder as they emerge onto the Soho street a few buildings down from the bookshop, his forehead pressing lightly to the side of Crowley's throat. To all the rest of the world they must look like a pair of lovers simply strolling down the street, too wrapped up in each other to even separate far enough to walk normally. Not that walking "normally" has ever really been a particular concern for Crowley ( _"My dear boy, have you **any** idea how a human skeleton is meant to behave?"_), but the impression the two of them must be giving off, and the knowing looks they garner from other pedestrians as they move down the pavement, make a lump form in Crowley's throat that refuses to move no matter how he swallows against it.

No one would guess from looking at them that he's just returned from having been kidnapped, or that Aziraphale had seemed on the brink of death not ten minutes ago. Or that one of the bastards who'd done all that to them is currently following them home, aided by Crowley's own magic and Aziraphale's permission.

 _This had better be a damn good explanation,_ he thinks, clenching his teeth, and holds Aziraphale a little tighter.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His eyes trace the angel's face, taking in the lightly furrowed brows, the lines about his eyes and mouth, the lingering signs of pain and fatigue he's so clearly trying to quell.
> 
> He nearly died coming to rescue Crowley, and now the idiot is trying to be _unobtrusive_ about it.

"I believe the best place to begin is—" Zedika starts to say the moment the bookshop's front door closes behind them.

"Shut it," Crowley growls, shooting them a glare over his shoulder as he helps Aziraphale towards the back room. "And stay there!"

"Don't be rude," Aziraphale snips at him, still leaning heavily into Crowley's side, but at least he's apparently starting to recover a bit, if he's got enough energy to get all prissy about manners.

"Mm… no," Crowley replies, pretending to think about it for half a second, then carefully helps lower the angel into his favorite armchair, where Aziraphale settles in with a sigh but not so much as a single small, tired wiggle. He really must be exhausted. "Wankers who try to kill us don't get nice manners," he adds softly, and miracles up a plush, warm throw blanket for the angel – tartan, _fine_ , he does want Aziraphale to feel better after all, but with significantly more black and red in than the angel usually goes with – before crouching down in front of his chair to tuck it across his legs.

Aziraphale gives another long exhale, tipping his head back and closing his eyes, but he doesn't argue the point. Nor does he push Crowley away, or object to his manhandling, which is… nice, he supposes.

Would be nicer under nicer circumstances, of course, Crowley thinks with a grimace, watching Aziraphale for a long moment from where he's knelt on the rug before him. His eyes trace the angel's face, taking in the lightly furrowed brows, the lines about his eyes and mouth, the lingering signs of pain and fatigue he's so clearly trying to quell.

He nearly died coming to rescue Crowley, and now the idiot is trying to be _unobtrusive_ about it.

"Gonna go get you some cocoa," he mutters, pushing to his feet and making for the door again.

"Crowley—" Aziraphale's eyes snap open with a sharp breath, and Crowley stops, spinning to face him again. He finds the angel looking up at him with bright, watery eyes.

"What? What is it?" Crowley demands, taking half a step back towards him. He searches Aziraphale's face, tastes the air, expecting burning, pain, screaming, or perhaps that horrible, quiet unconsciousness again, the choking scent of sulfur, of hellfire, because this was just a temporary reprieve, of course, _of course_ , they let him think getting Aziraphale home safe was all he needed to do to save him, but it was a trick, a lie, any moment now the killing agony will come roaring back, or he'll Fall, or burn, or—

"Er… Nothing," Aziraphale says, dropping his gaze to his hands, folded in his lap, eyelashes fluttering as he blinks several times as if to clear the moisture from them. "Just," he peeks up at Crowley again, "hurry back, dear, won't you?"

Crowley can only stare at first, feeling his entire corporation tense. "Right." He has to force the word out through a strangled throat, force himself to move again, spinning on his heel to stride out of the room, hands jammed firmly into his trouser pockets, lest he find them wrapped around Aziraphale again, holding him close like on the walk here, maybe petting his hair, stroking his cheek, gazing into his eyes to determine if he really, truly, is going to be alright… "Won't be a mo," he says over his shoulder as he slips out into the bookshop proper once more, and actually manages to make it sound casual.

Totally, super casual. Not like hearing even the slightest hint of overt affection from his angel still completely discombobulates him even after all these months. Nope. Definitely not. Cool as a cucumber, that's him.

His gaze finds Zedika when he comes around a corner in the shop, still standing in the entry where he'd left them. The other demon opens their mouth to speak, but Crowley holds up a sharp finger, cutting them off. "Don't. Move," he bites out, holding them in a glare as he continues past without breaking stride.

Aziraphale's little kitchenette is tucked away in a nook behind the front desk, consisting of an ancient mini fridge under the counter holding milk and cream that never spoils and a cupboard up above with all of the angel's favorite teas and cocoas as meticulously organized as the rest of the shop is chaotic. Several different kettles and saucepans from several different eras cover the worktop, and for once Crowley bypasses the shiny new electric kettle he'd finally managed to foist on Aziraphale in exchange for the battered old copper one and its little hot plate underneath – and that, at least, is electric now too, not the glorified Bunsen burner of a gas monstrosity Aziraphale'd had for ages before and that had made Crowley break out into cold sweats just looking at it ever since a certain boy had undone a certain Witchfinder's almost _unbelievably_ destructive idiocy.

He's still not entirely sure how Aziraphale had managed to talk him out of murdering – or at the very least seriously maiming – Shadwell after Crowley found out what actually happened that day.

In goes the milk, and some cocoa powder, along with a generous helping of sugar. He gives the old kettle a good shake, swirling it in a circle in front of him, then sets it down on the hot plate. He doesn't turn the power on, though, instead simply clicking his fingers and, just as steam begins to whistle from the spout, lifts it off again to pour the perfect amount of perfectly mixed and perfectly hot cocoa into a waiting mug.

Food and drink conjured up by miracle often tastes funny, but he's never had any problems simply speeding up the cooking process, least as far as Crowley can tell. He'd just as soon drink the stuff made with tap water and heated in a microwave, personally, but Aziraphale would know the difference. He always knows the difference, and he'd obviously say something if Crowley's cooking hacks affected the taste… wouldn't he?

Crowley thinks again of Aziraphale quietly suffering in the other room and very nearly tosses out the mug of cocoa to start all over and make it the slow, human way – but he also promised Aziraphale he'd be quick. He throws in a dash of vanilla and a spoonful of the double cream, now magically whipped up into a fluffy cloud atop the chocolate, and sets off for the bookshop's back room again.

" _Stay_ ," he snaps at Zedika when he goes past again, and they just sigh, nodding and folding their arms across their chest without comment.

Aziraphale actually seems to be dozing lightly when Crowley comes back in, his head tipped to the side to rest against one of the wings of the old threadbare armchair.

"Angel," Crowley murmurs, leaning down towards him but resisting the temptation to reach out and touch his hand.

Aziraphale's eyes flutter open, and a moment later his gaze finds Crowley, then the proffered cocoa, a smile breaking out across his face. "Oh, actually, my dear," he says, and presses his fingers over Crowley's where they're wrapped around the mug rather than taking it from him, and begins to push himself forward in his seat, "would you set that on the table for me? Just for a moment."

"Er… Sure," Crowley answers, doing just that, and when he looks again, Aziraphale has gathered up his blanket and is pushing himself – rather unsteadily – to his feet. "Whoa, whoa, what're you doing?"

"Just… felt I'd be more comfortable over here today," Aziraphale says, grasping the hand Crowley had put out to stop him and shuffling over to the sofa. He plops down onto it, scoots over into one corner of the cushions, resettles the blanket across his lap, and finally reaches to pick up the hot cocoa. "Mmm," he sighs, holding the cup in both hands and breathing deeply of the steam rising off it. He takes a generous sip and releases one of his patented Food Moans. "Oh, that is simply divine."

"Infernal, actually," Crowley chokes out, finally managing to get his brain even marginally back online. He shoves his hands in his pockets again, spinning away to do a little circuit round the room, just needing to look anywhere but at the angel for a few seconds. Between grabbing his hand, and sitting on the sofa – _where Crowley normally sits_ – and then the moaning, and enjoying the drink he'd made him, and _leaving enough room for Crowley to come sit beside him—_

He just. He needs a minute.

"Well, whatever you want to call it, it's wonderful," Aziraphale replies. Crowley can hear the smile in his voice, and when he looks back at the angel it's to find him licking cream off his upper lip.

He might need more than a minute.

"Sure thing, angel," he says faintly, staring at the shiny spot on Aziraphale's lip where his pink tongue had darted out and wondering distantly if, next time, Aziraphale would let Crowley lick the cream off for him…

"Well," Aziraphale says, lowering the mug into his lap and looking up at Crowley, and for one horrifying, heartstopping moment he thinks he might have actually spoken that random thought aloud – but then the angel goes on. "I don't know about you, but I think I'm about as ready to hear from our guest as I'm ever going to be."

Crowley stills, the anxious energy leaving him in an instant. "You— What, _really?!_ "

Aziraphale nods, looking thoughtfully down into his cocoa. 

"We don't have to, you know," Crowley wheedles, drifting closer. "We're home, we're safe, I could just— run 'em off, let them bugger off back to Hell or, or wherever it is they came from—"

"I don't think it was Hell," Aziraphale says, and looks up at Crowley again. "It… Well, I've admittedly only visited Hell the once, but it wasn't anything like that place."

"It could be, though." Crowley shakes his head, perching on the armrest at the opposite end of the sofa from Aziraphale. "They can make Hell look like whatever they want you to see, just to torture you." That's the theory, anyway. He can't help wondering, though, just a little, who would have had the creative vision to dream up such a convoluted scheme as this. None of the demons he knew before, that's for sure…

"Heaven is much the same," Aziraphale sighs, nodding, then frowns. "You said there were angels over there? And demons?"

"Yeah. There was this one angel in particular, Anra, she and Zedika…" He doesn't know how much Aziraphale was aware of before they got back here to their own side, if he saw the way they talked, the way they embraced… "They were… er…"

Aziraphale blinks, his brows climbing his forehead. "Zedika said something, before, about… Well, about wanting to go home to their— their 'mate.' Do—" He stops, looks down at his hands clenched around the mug of cocoa. "Do you think this Anra might be who they were referring to?"

Crowley can't look at him. An angel and a demon. Together. In a way that seems utterly unfathomable for him and Aziraphale, even after more than six thousand years of friendship. Even if Crowley might _want—_ "Sure seemed that way from what I saw," he says, voice only croaking a little around the words.

"Extraordinary," Aziraphale murmurs, and goes back to sipping at his chocolate.

"So you really wanna hear what they have to say?" Crowley asks after several long seconds of silence, watching the angel out of the corner of his eye, glad, not for the first time today, that he's managed to hang onto his sunglasses through several fights, a few interdimensional portals, and a couple bouts of shapeshifting. 

"I think I do, yes," Aziraphale says, nodding, then glances over at Crowley. "And you, my dear? How do you feel?"

Crowley rolls his shoulders in a sort of shrug. "I don't like it," he admits with a small sneer directed towards the front of the shop, "but I guess they're already here. Might as well find out as much as we can about what we're dealing with. 'Know your enemy' and all that."

"Of course," Aziraphale agrees.

"Right." He clambers off the couch, trying not to look too obviously like he's dragging his feet. "Guess I'll just—" And he hooks a thumb over his shoulder towards the bookshop's front doors.

"Yes." Aziraphale offers him a small smile. "I'll be here."

"Right," he says again, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, and, finally, goes trudging off to fetch Zedika.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So actually no explanations from Zedika yet this chapter – that'll be next time. I just wanted to give our boys some breathing room, some time with just the two of them, since they've been interacting with the OCs basically nonstop since chapter 1.
> 
> Thanks as always for the wonderful comments & kudos. They really do encourage me to keep writing ❤️


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swallowing, Zedika closes their eyes. “I misunderstood the nature of your relationship.”
> 
> Crowley is suddenly distinctly aware of every single point of contact between himself and Aziraphale. “You what?”
> 
> “I— I thought— I had _assumed_ ,” Zedika stammers, beginning to grow rather red in the face, “that you were mated. To each other.”

Zedika follows quietly behind him while Crowley stalks back into the room where Aziraphale sits waiting for them. He doesn’t like this, he doesn’t like this _one bit_.

Aziraphale looks up as they come in. "Do sit down," he says, and gestures to the armchair across from him, his eyes flicking briefly to Crowley before locking onto Zedika.

Crowley pulls a face, grumbling under his breath as he goes to retake his position on the sofa’s armrest. Figures Aziraphale is going to insist on being so unfathomably polite through all this. Just sit down and talk it out. It's not the way they settle things in Hell, that's for sure. Which reminds him—

“Try not to go all avenging angel again, yeah?” Crowley whispers, leaning down towards Aziraphale while they both watch Zedika get settled and arrange their wings to drape down over the chair’s arms. For starters, there’s hardly anywhere to take cover back here, and Crowley doesn’t much want to find out how he’d fair sitting right next to an angry heavenly supernova. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs primly in reply. 

Crowley cuts a sidelong look down at the angel, and after a moment Aziraphale meets his gaze, his cheeks flushing slightly. 

“Well,” he says then, blue eyes dropping away again to watch the strange demon across from them, “you can’t blame me for doing whatever I had to when they had just spirited you away.”

“Ng— Wh— That’s not—”

Aziraphale gives him another quick glance at his strangled sputtering, then turns to look at Zedika again. “I believe we’re ready now,” he says, voice raised to a normal volume once more. 

The demon takes a deep breath before looking up from where their hands are clasped in their lap, dark eyes looking back and forth between the two of them. “I—” they say, then break off, swallowing. They drop their gaze again. “I believe I should begin by offering my apologies. I… This was – is – primarily my mission, and I feel I am responsible for the way our previous interaction spun out of control. And you were harmed as a consequence of my words and actions then,” they say, looking timidly across at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale doesn’t move beyond a slight twitch of his fingers around his mug of cocoa. “And what about Crowley?” he asks, voice cool. 

Zedika blinks owlishly. “What… about Crowley?” they echo, and then shoot him a brief, questioning look, as if wondering if he’s not as whole as he appears. Crowley just curls his lip into a sneer, pulling one leg up to wind his arms around and rest his chin on his knee. 

“Well, he was kidnapped!” Aziraphale goes on. “And they might have done anything to him over there! Which, by the way, my dear,” he adds, dropping his voice slightly and turning to regard Crowley with one of those awful puppy-eyed looks of his, “I was so relieved just to be home again that I completely forgot to ask: _are_ you alright? Did they hurt you?” And then he has the _audacity_ to reach over and lay a hand on Crowley's arm. Like he isn't already about to combust just from meeting the angel's gaze!

“Er.” Crowley hunches his shoulders. “No. I mean, _yes_ , but, I mean. ‘M fine now.”

"Was it," Zedika starts, then flushes when they both turn to look at them again. "Was it when you first went through the portal?"

Aziraphale turns back to Crowley with a frown. "Did going through the portal hurt you too?" he asks softly.

"N— Ye— _No_ ," Crowley stammers, unsure who to answer first but finally deciding on Aziraphale. "Not like it did you," he clarifies. "I went through, and then Kinaa and I were fighting, and then some of the angels over there felt like getting a bit smitey."

Aziraphale gives a soft gasp, while, across from them, Zedika sighs and squeezes the bridge of their nose. "That is because they believed you to be a belligerent invader," they say from behind their hand. 

“What?” Aziraphale asks, looking over at them then back to Crowley who growls at Zedika, “I wasn’t _invading_ shit!”

Aziraphale’s fingers curl in his sleeve, as if unconsciously trying to draw Crowley towards him. “But, dearest, you’re really alright?”

“Yeah, angel, fine,” he answers, and covers Aziraphale’s hand with his own, fingers curling around the angel’s. And then, well, Crowley’s already holding his hand, wouldn’t be properly demonic not to take advantage and slither down into the seat next to him on the sofa. And he can’t _not_ let the angel lean into his side then, let Crowley soak up all his warmth like the reptile he is. Why, in his weakened state, it’s practically diabolical. Really. 

“I feel I must apologize again,” Zedika says, eyeing them – and their hands, still clasped together between them – with seeming renewed interest, “though this time on Kinaa's behalf. She is an accomplished warrior, and a talented Ranger, but…" They pause, shaking their head. "She is quick to fight, and has little appreciation for the nuances of your situation here.”

“And you do?” Aziraphale asks, his voice soft. 

Zedika meets his gaze briefly before looking down at their hands again. “I believe I have _some_ understanding. I have made a study of the ways of this world for approximately the last dozen centuries. I am a scholar, a historian, which was why our superiors insisted I be accompanied by Kinaa when I made contact with you. But I should have known better what to expect, and how to approach you. And…” They trail off, biting their lip.

“And?” Aziraphale prompts. 

Swallowing, Zedika closes their eyes. “This is the worst part, I believe,” they say. “The thing that caused the most harm. I misunderstood the nature of your relationship.”

Crowley is suddenly distinctly aware of every single point of contact between himself and Aziraphale. “You what?”

“I— I thought— I had _assumed_ ,” Zedika stammers, beginning to grow rather red in the face, “that you were mated. To each other.”

Time seems to stand still, only not in the miraculous-saving-the-world type of way, more of the _oh shit this is really happening no no no nO NO_ anxiety response type of way. Crowley is, technically, familiar with both, though the latter is much, much more common. At least in his experience. 

And then Aziraphale says, “Yes, you said so before we went through the portal. And what makes you think we aren’t?”

Crowley doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t so much as breathe. He can’t look at Aziraphale, least not without staring. Or possibly bursting into flame.

Besides, Zedika is staring enough for the both of them. “Because you collapsed when you left your world,” they say, a little slowly, as if this is entirely obvious, something Aziraphale should understand already, “and because Crowley’s touch did not heal you. Had I known, I would have sent for help more quickly, or found a way to get you back through the portal on my own, rather than waiting for someone to bring Crowley to help you.”

Zedika’s girlfriend making him get down on the ground with Aziraphale is starting to make a lot more sense all of a sudden. _"Press your forehead to his,"_ Anra had told him, after instructing him to take Aziraphale’s hands in his. _"Or, if you have some other ritual greeting, whatever you usually do together – you must do something to ground him."_

Because that’s what mates do for each other where Zedika comes from, apparently. They support each other, heal each other, just by their very presence. 

But Crowley had touched Aziraphale and the angel had just continued to circle the drain. 

“Well, guess the jig is up,” he says, carefully disentangling himself from Aziraphale’s grasp to instead lay his arm across the back of the sofa. If the angel wants to keep leaning into him, well, that’s his problem. “They know already, no point pretending,” he adds, when Aziraphale gives him a look. He turns away from the angel’s frown, from the question in his storm blue eyes, and addresses Zedika again. “You’re right, we’re not mated. Just old friends. Though,” he finds himself saying, the bitter words already pouring out of his mouth before he can stop himself, “it’d have to be one _seriously_ magical prick to do all that. Don’t see how any of that business would have been helped if we were fucking.”

“Really, dear, so crude,” Aziraphale huffs, shaking his head, while, across from them, Zedika’s mouth has fallen open.

“It… I do not…” The other demon blinks wide eyes at him. “It is not a _physical_ joining that I speak of,” they say at last, “but a _spiritual_ joining!”

“A spiritual joining?” Aziraphale echoes. “So you… simply believe that you are mated, and you are?”

“Oh— No…” Zedika is wringing their hands, looking down at their lap, and finally squeezes their eyes shut. “No, I… I suppose I must show you.”

“This isn’t gonna involve showing us any more portals, is it?” Crowley asks darkly, glaring across at the other demon.

Zedika shakes their head, reaching for a thin chain around their neck, “No, no. Only this.” They grasp the chain in one hand, pulling the pendant hanging from it out from beneath their jumper, while the other hand tugs the neck of the jumper down to reveal their breastbone. And then, closing their eyes in concentration, Zedika begins to glow. 

Or, _part_ of them glows, anyway: most of their form seems suddenly consumed by dark, swirling mist, red tinged, making Crowley think of nothing so much as colorized photography of nebulae. It’s truly a wonder that he ever could have failed to realize they’re as much a demon as he is, with an aura like that, Crowley thinks. And just as obvious now is the part of them that _isn’t_ demonic in the slightest: right in the center of their exposed chest, a bright point of light pulses, almost like a heartbeat, and if that’s not angelic energy, Crowley’s a flying toad. 

“I carry a piece of Anra with me always,” Zedika says, exhaling slowly as their aura recedes back out of view once more. “Well, two pieces, technically,” they add, releasing the hand on their jumper to instead cradle the pendant they wear. They look up after a moment and then hold it out to show Crowley and Aziraphale. Suspended in a circle of clear, cut crystal, is a single, tiny, rose gold feather. “But this one is only a sentimental memento,” they admit, smiling down at the little feather before tucking the necklace away again.

“Oh, how lovely!” Aziraphale breathes, smiling in turn. And if that smile seems a touch manic after what they just saw, well, who is Crowley to judge? “It quite reminds me of the rings people used to wear with a little plait of their lover’s hair worked in. I always did want— Well,” he says, with another quick glance over at Crowley.

Crowley doesn’t look at him, or at Zedika’s necklace. “You… You actually…” he starts, staring. 

Zedika nods, folding their hands in their lap again. “We are spiritually bonded. Our souls, our very _essences_ have been shared between us. That is what it means, among our people, to be mated.”

“Right,” Crowley says, voice faint, while his brain seems intent on replaying a night spent at his flat, a prophecy, his angel looking out at him through demonic yellow eyes, then hands clasped on a park bench, Aziraphale’s essence swirling around him one last time, rushing back to where it came from, leaving him alone with himself once more.

And all he can think is, _Well, shit._


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of Crowley – the hysterical part, he suspects – wants to turn to Aziraphale and ask, _'Does this mean we’re divorced?'_

Part of Crowley – the hysterical part, he suspects – wants to turn to Aziraphale and ask, _'Does this mean we’re divorced?'_

The rest of him, though, is busy screaming internally. He thinks it's internally, anyway. Sure hopes it is. 

"That's… simply extraordinary!" Aziraphale is saying.

Crowley can't look at him. Does the angel understand the _implications_ of this?! That they were— They had— For just a _little while_ , not even a full day, but— They were—

Might be more than just the one part that's gone hysterical.

"Really!" Aziraphale gushes, leaning forward over his cocoa and very much not looking at Crowley. "How ever did you come up with such a thing? Why, I wouldn't have even thought it possible!"

It's like listening to him go on about a new misprint Bible he's acquired for his collection, all enthusiasm and soft gasps. Why, if Crowley didn't know him as well he does, he'd be able to believe this was the first Aziraphale was hearing about an angel and a demon exchanging their essence – bits of their _ssoulsss_ , for _fuck'sss ssssake!_ – to form some kind of mystical bond between them.

But Crowley does know him, and more to the point he knows that this demon just gave them a demonstration of exactly how he and Aziraphale had survived their would-be executions last summer.

"It… It is absolutely possible," Zedika murmurs, seeming a little wrong-footed by the praise. They're watching Aziraphale intently, and then they cast a glance Crowley's way, dark eyes full of questions. He's fairly sure all the screaming is just inside his head at this point, but he makes doubly sure to keep his expression blank just to be safe.

Aziraphale titters beside him. "Oh, well, yes, of course it's _possible_ , as you've just shown us—"

"But you— You really have never heard of such a bond before?" Zedika asks, looking back and forth between them.

"Nope," Crowley responds, popping the 'p,' and slouches a little more aggressively into the back of the couch. Across from him, Zedika seems to wilt slightly, looking down at their hands in their lap again.

 _Yeah, I'll **bet** you're disappointed,_ he thinks savagely, only just managing not to bare his teeth at the other demon. They couldn't get Aziraphale to reject God and Fall, their first play when they'd shown up at the bookstore that morning. And then they'd chosen to forestall going the torture route even when they had Crowley imprisoned, for some reason – maybe because Aziraphale had been on the war path, by his own admission, coming to rescue Crowley no matter what anybody told him. Probably was only prevented by some underhanded means courtesy of Zedika, little fucker had probably attacked him the second his back was turned… So they'd had to improvise, turn that situation back to their advantage somehow, decided to let Crowley go and try subterfuge again. 

So now this must be Plan C: Someone, somewhere, had had the same idea he and Aziraphale had that night in August as they sat staring down at Agnes Nutter's little afterthought of a prophecy. This whole story about Zedika and Anra being mated, being _soulmates_ , is just about trying to get him and Aziraphale to let slip that that's how they did it, that's how they survived.

Right. Right so. So none of this was real, not really. So Heaven and Hell got some angels and demons to experiment with, and they managed to replicate what he and Aziraphale had done last year. That's all. They're not soulmates. Nobody is. Because there's no such bloody thing!

And Aziraphale knows this. 'Course he does. He's so clever, he probably realized exactly what was going on here before Crowley was even done having his little bleeding heart existential crisis.

"I…" Zedika says, then swallows roughly. "I am… saddened to hear that. I knew from my studies that… that so _much_ had been lost since the inva—" They cut themself off abruptly, shooting an alarmed look at Aziraphale. 

The angel, for his part, only gazes back steadily, brows rising the tiniest amount but otherwise not reacting. Certainly not going full nuclear like last time, for which Crowley is personally grateful.

"Apologies," Zedika whispers, dropping their gaze to their lap again. "I know you do not wish to hear of that. But it grieves me to learn that this… this most intimate way of connecting between our kind has been lost to your world, like so much else."

 _"Even this has been taken from you,"_ Crowley remembers Anra murmuring when he was on the other side, when she'd referred to Earth by a name he'd never heard before: _Teresiel_.

 _'But why?!'_ he wants to demand. These are such stupid, small details, and they don't further Heaven and Hell's plot at all, don't help them get at his and Aziraphale's secrets. Aliens from another galaxy, who've been watching and studying life on Earth, would just call it _the Earth!_ There's no need for these magical, Warcraft-reject-sounding names! Much less _soulmates!_

No, these feel more like artistic flourishes than anything else, he realizes. The sort of thing _he_ might throw into a project, like sprinkles on a sundae. Not at all integral to the overall outcome, but just adding that extra little _something_. But who in Hell – or Heaven – could they have found with the sort of creative vision to put something like this together?!

And, more importantly, why bother? Why take the time? Why not simply capture them and inform them that The Powers That Be have figured out their little parlor trick? 

Well. That's obvious, isn't it? Because simply obliterating them isn't enough anymore. It was one thing when he and Aziraphale had just disrupted the Great Plan, the war they'd been working towards for the entire history of the world, but then they went and _embarrassed_ the higher ups by refusing to just die when expected. No, now it's about mind games, about making fools of the two of them in return. 

It's subtle, but it's torture all the same.

They had offered Aziraphale things he wanted, Heaven's love and approval if only he would turn his back on God. Now, apparently, it's Crowley's turn. And they seem to know exactly what he's wanted more than anything for over six thousand years.

"Well," he sniffs, shaking off his thoughts and injecting himself into the conversation once more as he stretches his arms along the back of the sofa, flings his legs further out across the rug, "I dunno, doesn't seem like such a big loss, if you ask me."

Both Zedika and Aziraphale turn to look at him, but Crowley keeps his gaze trained solely on the demon across from him. 

"I mean, for all you know, we didn't _lose_ anything – maybe we all just decided to not do… _that_ ," he goes on, with a vague gesture towards Zedika and the spot where the angelic energy had glowed out of them a minute ago.

Zedika frowns at him, tilting their head slightly. "One cannot _choose_ to abstain from something they do not know exists," they point out after a moment, voice soft.

Beside him, Aziraphale gives a snort of laughter. "They've got you there, my dear," he says, smiling slightly as he takes a sip of his cocoa. Then, addressing Zedika, "Don't mind him; he just likes to be argumentative when a cantankerous mood takes him."

Crowley makes a snide face at Aziraphale's profile, all while silently thanking his lucky stars this wonderful angel is on _his_ side and can cover so smoothly for him when he puts his foot in his mouth like that. They'd just claimed they'd never heard of angels and demons exchanging their essence, and he goes and says a thing like that!

"'Cantankerous,' jesus, you sound old," he sighs, rolling his eyes. Neither of the others can see his eyes rolling thanks to his dark glasses, but he's come to suspect over the years that Aziraphale always has some sense of what his expression is doing anyway.

"I _am_ old, dear," Aziraphale chirps in reply, smiling at him, just like he always does when Crowley complains about his outdated wardrobe, or cultural references, or slang, or technical prowess, or any number of other things.

"Yeah, _well_ ," Crowley bites back, and turns to Zedika again, " _now_ that I've heard of this whole 'bonding' thing, I'm gonna _start_ – or keep on, or _whatever_ – 'abstaining' from it."

Zedika's eyebrows rise slightly, the demon looking somehow crestfallen.

"I mean— Someone else's essence all— all— _wriggling_ around inside you? No thanks. The whole thing just seems _unnatural_ , don't you think, angel?" he asks, turning to Aziraphale, but not before he catches a small flinch cross Zedika's face. 

"Oh, I— I don't know that I'd go quite _that_ far," Aziraphale hedges, doing a good job of playing the good cop as he glances across at Zedika, a sympathetic tilt to his mouth. "We do plenty of 'unnatural' things by way of miracle, after all. And mixing like this isn't so very different from the aether from which we all were formed. And if it _truly_ weren't meant to be done, well…" He leaves it hanging, and Crowley has to struggle not to let show how that sets his teeth on edge, this old argument they've had so many times…

"I must say, though," Aziraphale adds, pursing his lips, and Zedika looks up to meet his gaze, "it does seem rather, er… Well, rather _outlandish_ , an angel and a demon together like this. Why, Crowley and I are friends," he waves a hand between the two of them, "but we're also so very different. We'd never _dream_ of intermingling like you have!" 

Zedika opens their mouth, but no sound comes, leaving them simply gaping stupidly at Aziraphale.

"Like I said," Crowley sneers, and tries to ignore how Aziraphale's words prickle and sting, even though they _have_ intermingled exactly like that, even if only once, " _unnatural_."

The other demon looks at him, looks at Aziraphale again, blinks once or twice, and then bursts into tears.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley’s gaze jerks up to meet his again, and he’s entirely unsurprised by what he finds there: Aziraphale doesn’t believe a word of what he’s saying. It’d be shocking if Aziraphale actually was sincere about any of this; he’s not an idiot, he knows this is really just Heaven and Hell stringing them along. But they’ve shown already that they can and will use force given the right circumstances, that they can separate the two of them, and hurt them, maybe even kill them, for real, permanently. 
> 
> So they’ll play along, at least for now. 

Crowley freezes, feels Aziraphale do the same beside him, both staring at the crying demon across from them.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale says, moving to set his cocoa aside on the coffee table.

Zedika has their arms wrapped around their middle, wings mantling about their shoulders as they hiccup and sob, and then, all of a sudden, the person-shaped-being in the chair is replaced by an enormous barn owl. The owl flaps its deep umber-colored wings twice, then takes to the air to disappear amongst the shadows atop Aziraphale's many bookshelves.

After a moment of silence, Aziraphale says again, with feeling, "Oh dear."

"Well, that's just embarrassing," Crowley sniffs, folding his arms. Getting all maudlin and publicly weeping – without even the excuse of getting completely shit-faced first! – and then turning into an animal to escape the emotions that come with a humanoid form. It’s pathetic, is what it is, and definitely not something Crowley has ever done in his six-thousand-odd years on earth. Certainly not more than a handful of times, he’s sure. Aziraphale turns to frown disapprovingly at him. "What? It is! Downright undemonic behavior." 

"We made them _cry!_ " Aziraphale responds, and Crowley has to squint at him over the top of his sunglasses, as the angel's face is doing something complicated that doesn't match what he's saying: head tilting, eyebrows going all over the place, mouth pursing and pinching. "Those were terribly unkind things you said about their relationship with their mate, you know." The angel's head nods a bit more emphatically, off in the direction where Zedika disappeared.

"Me?! You weren't much better!" Crowley retorts, narrowing his eyes at the angel. Aziraphale is plotting something, he knows, but exactly what he has in mind is still a bit hazy, since he can't spell it out when Zedika can no doubt still hear them talking.

"I was trying to at least be diplomatic," Aziraphale says, turning his nose up. And then his peeks over at Crowley again, as if to make sure he knows this is all part of the act. "It does seem they take this rather seriously, I must say."

"Well, sure," Crowley says, settling back into the sofa once more. He still doesn't see where Aziraphale is going with this, but he'll follow the angel's lead wherever it takes him. "Sharing your essence with someone, not exactly something you just do on a lark." Not unless your life depends on it, one might say.

"Indeed," Aziraphale murmurs, sounding thoughtful, but his eyes are sharp as ever as they cut over towards Crowley again. "Do you know, they said something when you were over there with Kinaa—"

"Y'mean when I was _kidnapped?_ "

"Yes, yes." Aziraphale flaps a hand at him. "But they said something about… Well, about it being _painful_ to be separated from their mate when they're here with us."

Crowley tips his head back along the back of the couch, one heel kicking against the rug. Yeah, _painful_ , he can relate. Like every time throughout history when Aziraphale'd walked away from him, or insisted that they couldn't possibly be friends, or when they'd had a row and he didn't know when – if – he'd see the angel again, if things'd ever be the same, if he'd have finally put his foot down and become a proper little angel, if he'd ever even want to see Crowley again—

He squeezes his eyes shut. _Focus_. He hasn't had to worry about any of that in months. 

Well, mostly.

But none of that is what's important right this moment. Right now, they have an owl to catch.

“So… What? You think they’re crying because they’re _in pain_?” he asks, returning to Aziraphale’s statement. 

The angel shakes his head. “No, I think…” He lowers his voice, but not so much that he won’t still be overheard by the third person in the room, if they care to listen. “I think, rather, that being separated from their mate puts an additional strain on them, on top of attempting to navigate conversation with us. It is such a delicate topic, after all, introducing us to an entirely new culture of other beings like ourselves.”

Crowley’s gaze jerks up to meet his again, and he’s entirely unsurprised by what he finds there: Aziraphale doesn’t believe a word of what he’s saying. It’d be shocking if Aziraphale actually _was_ sincere about any of this; he’s not an idiot, he knows this is really just Heaven and Hell stringing them along. But they’ve shown already that they can and will use force given the right circumstances, that they can separate the two of them, and hurt them, maybe even _kill_ them, for real, permanently. 

So they’ll play along, at least for now. 

“Ugh, fiiine,” Crowley sighs, rolling his eyes ceiling-ward and slouching flamboyantly. “I’ll be _nicccce_. Happy?”

Aziraphale beams at him. “Yes, thank you, dearest.” And then, raising his voice towards the shelves across the room, he calls out, “Zedika? Won’t you come down? We’re very sorry we upset you.”

“Demons having to be nice to each other, what’s the world coming to,” Crowley mutters, but at Aziraphale’s glare, he adds, louder, “Right, yes, so sorry.”

There’s a moment of silence, then the quiet shuffling of talons and feathers filters down to them. A second later, a dark barn owl face peeks down from the top of one of the bookshelves, blinking wide dark eyes and giving a soft, inquisitive coo. 

“There you are,” Aziraphale breathes, and smiles compassionately up at the demon. “Are you alright? I’m ever so sorry for our insensitive comments before.”

The owl looks for a moment like they’re contemplating turning and hiding again, but then with a sigh, Zedika flutters down to land on the back of the armchair. Their form shimmers, and then they are standing behind the chair in their humanoid shape once more, arms again wrapped around their midsection and wings curving around them defensively. 

“Thank you for saying that,” they sniffle, their voice small. “It… It is not the first time I have heard such comments, but…” Zedika’s shoulders hunch more, their gaze on the floor rather than looking at either Crowley or Aziraphale. 

“Whatever do you mean?” Aziraphale asks, sitting forward slightly with a frown. Crowley darts a glance over at the angel; he knows Aziraphale is playing them, but still, he does sometimes have more goodwill than self-preservation instincts. 

“It, um…” Zedika bites their lip. “I… I should not have assumed about your relationship. I-I understand that such a thing is truly taboo here…”

Crowley tries not to be too obvious about rolling his eyes behind his glasses. Here they go again – Zedika will now tearfully tell them all about how they could be _together_ if they only buy into the story about their magical fantasy world where angels and demons frolic peacefully together in endless fields of purple grasses!

“And while… while the situation is not the _same_ in Natiaa… It is still considered… abnormal. At best. For a Guardian and a Ranger to be together.”

Oh.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, sitting back again. 

So that… wasn’t what either of them had expected. 

Well, well sure. They’ve learned – the way they’d tiptoed around mentioning their whole ‘God is an alien parasite’ conspiracy theory for fear of Aziraphale blowing up on them again shows that they’re learning and adjusting as they go. So they know they can’t make it sound _too_ good now, can’t promise to make all his and Aziraphale’s dreams come true, or it’ll be completely unbelievable. 

“It is not as if it never happens,” Zedika goes on, pushing a lock of auburn hair behind their ear and still not looking up at either of them. “But… most of our kind find it strange. They believe that our natures are too different, that we would be anathema to each other…”

Crowley can’t help the snigger that escapes, and he’s fairly sure he sees, out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale’s lips quiver, dangerously close to breaking his serious facade. 

He _definitely_ sees the way Zedika flinches and goes back to hugging themself at that. 

“We’re very sorry, again!” Aziraphale jumps in, subtly jabbing Crowley in the side with his elbow. “I’m sure _neither_ of us,” another elbow jab, earning him a quick _Oi!_ from Crowley, “meant any offense – it’s only we have an acquaintance whose name is the same word in English as the concept you’ve just expressed: ‘Anathema.’”

Zedika finally risks a glance up, blinking wide eyes at Aziraphale. “That is a strange name,” they say softly.

“It is, indeed,” Aziraphale replies, smiling kindly at the demon. “One does get used to it, though, and so it only startled a little laugh out of us to hear the term used properly for once.”

“I understand,” Zedika murmurs, dropping their gaze again. “Thank you for explaining.”

“Of course. Now, you were telling us that you and your mate face a certain amount of prejudice back home?” Aziraphale prompts, a sympathetic little frown turning on his lips. Fuck, Crowley knows he’s faking but still he can feel the kindly compassion absolutely _oozing_ off the angel. 

Zedika sighs and moves around in front of the wingback chair to sit down heavily on it, their wings twitching nervously on either side of them until finally seeming to settle in a comfortable position. “It is not _prejudice_ , precisely,” they say, and one hand has left off hugging their middle to instead clutch around the pendant containing Anra’s feather. “Neither Anra or I have ever been denied positions or opportunities because of it, as far as I know. But…” They pause, swallowing. “Some in Natiaa do express a certain amount of… of derision. For our bond.”

“People like Kinaa,” Crowley says, remembering with sudden clarity how the other demon had spoken to Aziraphale and Zedika both when they’d first come to the bookshop that morning, how she’d called Zedika a Guardian fucker – and not in some euphemistically derogatory way, given the always-literal Enochian she’d been speaking. 

Zedika glances at him, then nods. “Kinaa has very strong opinions about the respective roles of Rangers and Guardians.”

Aziraphale hums, nodding understandingly. “Well, not to speak ill of your colleague,” he says, voice turning prim and arch, “but I think the company has vastly improved in her absence.”

That startles a little huff of laughter out of Zedika, and Crowley finds himself smiling as well, despite himself. Stupid fucking adorable angel. 

“I will not be offended on her behalf,” Zedika responds with a small smile, quietly, like it’s not something they’re supposed to say. “I truly wish, now, that I had been allowed to approach the two of you on my own, without Kinaa accompanying me. Although…” They drop their gaze again, face flushing slightly. “She was right about one thing. I… I said before that I had made assumptions about the nature of your relationship.”

“Yes?” Aziraphale says.

Zedika swallows again, as if fighting a lump in their throat. “I believed— I had _assumed_ that you and Crowley were mated, but Kinaa believed that I was simply projecting my own relationship onto you. That I so wanted to meet another bonded pair like Anra and myself, that I saw only the evidence that supported my hypothesis and disregarded all else. And, it turns out,” they conclude, hunching their shoulders once more and not looking at either of them, “she was correct.”

“Wait,” Crowley says, eyes narrowing, “so you two are the _only_ angel-demon pair where you come from? I thought you said it _wasn’t_ taboo over there.” That’s not just hedging their bets to avoid making it sound _too_ too-good-to-be-true, that’s just, just— He doesn’t _know_ what, but it’s not exactly inspiring him to join up. 

“It is not,” Zedika replies, looking up at him for a moment. “All are free to seek a mate with whomever they will – and many choose none at all. But…” Their hands are clasped in their lap now, wringing them slowly. “Most like Anra and myself do not stay in Natiaa. We have stayed in our home world the longest of any such pair, as far as I know.”

“What, so there’s _another_ planet where all the angels and demons who’re in love with each other run around?” Crowley sneers, unable to help himself. He knows Aziraphale has some planned path he’s gradually leading Zedika down, pretending to befriend and believe them, but _come on_. 

Zedika looks up, blinking at him in confusion. “Natiaa is not a planet,” they say slowly.

“Is it the name of that city we could see through the portal, then?” Aziraphale asks. 

“No,” Zedika frowns, looking back and forth between the two of them. “I— I thought you understood. I thought—”

Crowley goes still, his mind whirling so fast it feels like his skull is set to vibrate off his spinal column. Kinaa’s laughing at him that morning. Saying his concept of creation was too limited. The star chart Anra had pulled up, that was completely wrong, completely fabricated, unlike anywhere in the whole universe. Enochian is always so literal, communicating in pure concepts – but still there are different dialects, the same concept might come to mean something different in Heaven or in Hell, and Zedika and Kinaa and everyone else over on the other side of the portal spoke their own dialect, separate from either Above or Below. 

But they can’t possibly be trying to say— 

“Natiaa,” Zedika explains, looking like they’re choosing their words very carefully, working hard to sidestep any new misunderstandings, _mistranslations_ , “is a separate _universe_ from this one.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another universe.
> 
> Another universe!
> 
> It's— It's not possible. It can't be. 
> 
> It's in the very definition of the word! The universe is— is— It's everything! Everything there is, all of it, everything She created—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, yall. It's been a while, huh? I've gone through several whole cycles of depression during this weird, weird time, like I'm sure many people have. But I'm back to writing at least semi-regularly now, so finally here's a new chapter. Enjoy!

Aziraphale is talking next to him. Crowley is well aware of this. He's never _not_ aware of the angel. But he can't focus on the words, can't follow what he's telling Zedika or what the other demon is saying in reply.

Another universe.

Another _universe!_

It's— It's not possible. It can't be. 

It's in the very _definition_ of the word! The universe is— is— It's _everything!_ Everything there is, all of it, everything She created—

And then it clicks.

He finds himself blinking several times, fast, the motion unfamiliar and strange, just like everything else that's happened today.

Everything except for the one, simple, incredibly important fact that _they're still trying to get Aziraphale to Fall._

"I really do think it would be for the best," Aziraphale is saying, his tone warm, gentle as he nods across at Zedika. Crowley immediately bristles at it.

Zedika is chewing their bottom lip. "I am not sure…"

"Well, why not just see what she thinks of it, hm? Either way, I think we could all use a little time to recover, and to… _absorb_ what we've learned today," Aziraphale says, his smile turning abashed and self-deprecating.

After a moment, Zedika nods, then stands from their chair. "I will ask her. But, even if she does not agree, I will return tomorrow, at midday, in the alley where we re-entered your world today – if that is agreeable to you?"

"Yes, of course," Aziraphale smiles up at them, just as Crowley blurts out, "Wait, you're leaving?"

Zedika blinks down at him, looking confused, and then Aziraphale titters as his side, "Goodness, haven't you been listening, dear?"

Crowley looks over at him. "N— Wh— I mean—"

"And I thought I was supposed to be the absent-minded one," Aziraphale sighs, but it's with a soft, fond smile, so Crowley supposes that's alright then – because he's decided to cut the angel some slack, _not_ because that smile has made his insides go all gooey and warm. Obviously. "Zedika here is going to return home to their… universe," Aziraphale explains. The pause in his sentence is almost imperceptible, but Crowley can hear it, can hear how he has to force the word out, how much effort Aziraphale is putting into trying to come across as understanding, as _receptive_ to their message. "And we'll pick up this discussion once more tomorrow. It has been a rather hard day all around, after all," he adds with a commiseratory glance at Zedika.

"Yes," Zedika agrees in a small voice, wrapping their arms around themself again.

"Right… Why the alley, though?" Crowley asks, squinting up at them. "Can't you just—" He waves a hand in the air, like he's seen both Zedika and Kinaa do. "Pop in wherever you like?"

Zedika shakes their head. "It is forbidden to open a portal into an enclosed space, unless absolutely necessary – objects that intersect with the portal would be damaged, and I should hate to ruin any of your books," they say with a small, shy smile at Aziraphale. "Besides," they add, glancing around the bookstore, "the protections you have placed on your home here prevent an outsider from opening such a doorway." 

There's a part of Crowley, even now, that coils tight and defensive at that, that feels the need to sputter and protest that the bookshop isn't _his_ home, that he wouldn't be caught dead spending a second longer than necessary in such a dusty, cluttered, _uncool_ place as this, lest anyone Above or Below get the wrong – or, worse, the _right_ – idea. 

Another, larger part wants to glance furtively at Aziraphale, to watch the angel out of the corner of his eye, worrying that perhaps this is a step too far, that this is the insinuation that'll finally be too much for him, that it'll be the angel protesting that Crowley doesn't live here, that he doesn't belong here, that he has no place at Aziraphale's side, that he should get gone and stay that way—

And yet another, not insignificant but certainly secret, guarded, part of him thrills at the implication, as it always has done, every time anyone looks at them and seems to think, 'Ah, yes, a matched set. Clearly two who are meant to fit together.' And, as it's begun doing since they were both essentially unemployed last August, this part of him _exults_ at the silence from Aziraphale now, the _lack_ of any denials from his angel about their friendship, about what they are to each other. After millennia of insisting that they're not friends, barely even _acquaintances_ , this quiet acceptance feels like nothing short of a win.

How pathetic is that?

As it is, neither of them says anything, and Zedika goes on talking, entirely unaware of the momentous goings on in Crowley's brain from their casual choice of words.

"Once inside, I can open a portal outward, though," the demon explains, and with a tip of their head, a long oval tears itself vertically through the air beside them, showing the field of waving purple grass on the other side.

Crowley narrows his eyes at them. "So, theoretically, you could open up one of these portals and let an army waiting on the other side walk right in to greet us?"

Zedika freezes halfway to the portal, turning to look back at him. "I… suppose that would be possible? I had not thought of that…" they say. Then, frowning down at the floor, "Perhaps it is best if I do not depart from here." They look at the portal and raise a hand as if to dismiss it. "I can slip out through the alleyway instead, especially if you will assist me in avoiding attention once more…"

"Oh, no, I'm sure that won't be necessary!" Aziraphale cries, sitting forward slightly. He shoots Crowley a look, then turns back to Zedika, who has paused, hand still raised. "Crowley's just, you know, theorizing. Thinking aloud. He didn't mean anything by it, of course – we certainly wouldn't mean to imply we suspect you of any ulterior motives!"

Zedika bites their lip, still looking unsure, and so Aziraphale makes shooing motions at them, as if he can push them towards the portal from where he sits. 

"Go on, now," he says. "We'll see you tomorrow. And do talk to your young lady about what I suggested!"

"Alright," Zedika agrees softly. "Tomorrow." And then they step through the portal and are gone.

"What was that about talking to their 'young lady'?" Crowley asks once the portal has popped out of existence behind Zedika, and can't help sneering a little at the idea of Anra, broad, muscular, and immortal, being referred to by that description.

"Oh, you really _weren't_ paying attention, were you?" Aziraphale tuts. He takes a last, long drink of his cocoa before setting the mug aside again and pushing the blanket from his lap to climb to his feet.

"Feeling better?" Crowley asks, eyeing Aziraphale warily with hands itching to spring up and catch him should he start to wobble again.

"Much," Aziraphale assures him, folding the tartan blanket and laying it across the back of the sofa. He drops one hand to Crowley's shoulder and says with a smile, fingers squeezing lightly through his blazer, "You do take such good care of me, my dear." And then he breezes past, leaving Crowley a blushing, sputtering wreck in his wake.

"Ngchhhh _what_ exactly is Zedika talking to Anra about?" he demands once he gets his vocal chords to behave again, trailing after Aziraphale into the main room of the shop.

"About accompanying them here tomorrow," comes Aziraphale's calm reply, drifting back through the stacks towards Crowley. He scowls, stalking forward to catch up with the angel.

"You _what_ now?"

Aziraphale is studying an absolutely massive, antique keyring in his hands when Crowley spots him, the metal ring nearly entirely filled up with keys of varying designs and ages. He's standing in front of a glass display cabinet that's so clouded up with dust Crowley can barely make out the shape of the books within, much less read any titles.

"Angel," he growls, while Aziraphale finally selects an old brass key and blithely ignores him. "Why've you invited over the very people who are trying to destroy us?"

Aziraphale gives a happy little hum as he unlocks the cabinet, and says, "I thought it might be useful to study them, up close, where we have the— Hm, what is that phrase? The home turf advantage?"

"Close enough," Crowley mutters, folding his arms and leaning against the nearest shelf – which holds perfectly steady, of course, wouldn't dare consider toppling and harming Aziraphale's precious books. "Why d'you want to study them? Much better to just make 'em leave us alone, if you ask me," he says, watching Aziraphale alternately stretch up and crouch down to look through the ancient tomes on their various shelves inside the display case.

"Well, yes, that is the ultimate goal, of course," Aziraphale replies absently, and then, with a soft, "Aha!" he emerges with a large, heavy-looking book in his hands. Crowley can see him run his fingers over the writing on the front cover, a little shiver seeming to go through him. Ever weak to his own curiosity and to anything that might enrapture his angel so, he steps forward, peering over Aziraphale's shoulder to get a better look at the book in his hands.

The first thing he sees, before he manages to read any of the other writing on the cover, is the prominent sigil carved into the hardened leather, the Enochian symbol practically screaming off its surface: _ANGELS_.

He almost has to step back, fights the impulse, instead settles for squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up against his forehead. It's not the voice of God speaking the word, nor Her hand that wrote it there – but _still_. It brings back memories, threadbare and soured with age, of that glorious voice addressing them as a whole, Her children, Her beloved creations, _Hers_.

"What the fuck is that?" Crowley snarls out, still not looking at the book.

He hears Aziraphale crack the stiff old thing open, hears the whisper of ancient vellum as he turns the pages. Weird – he'd normally not handle a book this old without his delicate white gloves and the most careful, most reverent of touches. "They kidnapped you," Aziraphale murmurs, his voice quiet and steely over the crackle of the pages. "Hurt you. Held you captive." The turning pages lie still at last. Crowley feels his angel turn towards him, finally drops his hand and opens his eyes to meet Aziraphale's gaze again. 

"This, my dear," Aziraphale says, and Crowley follows his glance down to the page he's landed on, frowns, looks closer, boggles at what he's seeing, at the spellwork Aziraphale's got framed between his manicured fingers, Enochian and undeniably demonic, _impossible_ , yet there all the same, sitting in the most capable hands Crowley has ever known, "is how we're going to return the favor."


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not such an unusual spell, now he gets a closer look at it: a binding circle not unlike what they already have inscribed on the floor of the bookshop. 
> 
> Well. Not unlike in form. _Very_ unlike in function. 
> 
> He never even knew it was _possible_ to trap an angel like you could a demon. 

Aziraphale sets about gathering the supplies they’ll need for the spell, humming snatches of "Ritt der Walküren" as he goes. 

Crowley finally allows himself to creep towards the book where it lies open on the angel’s desk. The writing doesn’t so much scream at him like the sigil on the cover had, though there’s certainly still power here. 

It’s not such an unusual spell, now he gets a closer look at it: a binding circle not unlike what they already have inscribed on the floor of the bookshop. 

Well. Not unlike in form. _Very_ unlike in function. 

He never even knew it was _possible_ to trap an angel like you could a demon. 

Probably for the best, that. Not that Crowley ever would have used it against Aziraphale, not even once in all the history of the world, but if he could've stumbled across such knowledge, then so could any number of demons in Hell, and that… He shudders. That doesn’t bear thinking about. Good thing Aziraphale seems to have been so obsessive about tracking down and hoarding all the rarest and most dangerous books known – or not so known – to humankind.

Aziraphale breezes past, still humming, and plops an armful of herbal ingredients on the workbench before wandering away again. Why he doesn't just miracle the lot into place is beyond Crowley. Probably wouldn't lend itself nearly so well to vengeful humming as this bustling about does, and there are few things Aziraphale enjoys more than bustling about his bookshop.

The angel hasn't actually _asked_ him to help – he's probably enjoying thinking through his plans for revenge too much to not want to savor every little step in the process, the wonderful bastard – but Crowley sets about putting the ingredients in the order they'll be called for in the spell anyway. It's better when Aziraphale _asks_ him to do things, or heavily implies at least, and then Crowley can hem and haw and pretend to only reluctantly give in, and then they both come away knowing how he spoils his angel rotten. 

Doing things unasked isn't at all the same. For one thing, it's even odds if Aziraphale will be too absorbed in a book to notice that the world is coming down around his ears, let alone that Crowley cleaned up that thing for him or reheated his tea when he hadn't even noticed it'd gone cold. And for another, it's… Well, it's, it's, it's not really _proper_ demonic, is it? _Spoiling_ the angel, or even, say, having an angel _indebted_ to him, if he really had to try to talk his way out with Hell, now _that_ was demonic. But doing things when Aziraphale hasn't even asked him to is just… thoughtful. Dare he say even _nice_.

He continues lining all the little bottles and jars into a row, eyes running down the page for reference, and thinks about how Aziraphale's face lights up whenever he _does_ realize Crowley has done something for him without being asked first: it's like a sunrise, a slow dawning glow, a tentative, almost disbelieving smile spreading across his face.

He's started thinking, the last few months since the world didn't end, that maybe there are worse things to be than nice. Least where Aziraphale is concerned.

Aziraphale is just coming out of the backroom again, his arms laden with the last of the items they'll need, when Crowley finishes at the workbench. He's even left spaces for the ingredients still missing, so they can be easily slotted into place once the angel sets them down. "That should be everything," he says as Aziraphale approaches, eyes scanning down the page once more. He needs to feign nonchalance in the face of that glowy smile, needs to buy himself a few seconds to prepare as Aziraphale exclaims in pleasure at the sight of their now perfectly organized supplies. 

Ingredient list complete, Crowley's gaze continues down to the first few instructions below, what they'll need to write on the floor, the incantation a human would recite to power it up…

His reading comes to a screeching halt.

"Angel."

"Hm?" Aziraphale isn't looking at him when Crowley manages to tear his eyes away from the book, the angel instead fussing with the things Crowley has already organized, leaving his once perfectly straight line now more of a wibbly-wobbly trail of clumps and clusters.

"Don't actually have everything we need on the table, do we?" Crowley asks pointedly.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Aziraphale mutters, pursing his lips and still refusing to meet Crowley's gaze, in that way that means he knows _exactly_ what Crowley's getting at.

In response, Crowley spins and jumps up to sit on the worktop, making the various glass containers beside him shudder and clink warningly against each other. " _There_ ," he snarls, glaring. " _That's_ all the ingredients now."

Aziraphale sighs, rolling his eyes at Crowley's dramatics, but he at least finally stops fiddling with the line of bottles and jars and looks up at Crowley. "Do you mind terribly, dear?" he asks, his voice soft, eyes imploring – but not, Crowley slowly realizes, imploring him to just go along with it, to just do him this favor. Rather, the angel is asking for honesty, for his actual feelings on the issue.

He's not sure how to handle the implication that if he _does_ mind, then they just… won't do it. 

"We could— That is— I would power the spell myself. Obviously," Aziraphale babbles, looking down at the book, "but an angel can't bind another angel, it has to be opposing forces, else they could just slip right out of the trap, and—"

"I— Hrnggghhh." Crowley drops his gaze, scowling at the floor now instead, fingers clenching hard against the edge of the counter. "Right. Just. Would've liked some warning, is all," he says at last.

"Yes. Of course," Aziraphale replies quietly, fretting with the bottom edge of his waistcoat. He purses his lips again, shakes his head. "No, you're absolutely right. It was… I shouldn't have presumed, it's too much to ask—"

"Didn't say that," Crowley mumbles, and then shrugs one shoulder when Aziraphale looks back at him. "Don't really see any other way of wrangling a strange angel inside the shop."

"Really?" Aziraphale asks, brows rising uncertainly. 

"Yeah." Crowley nods, twisting to look down at the spellbook again. He blows out a breath, staring down at the line that had tripped him up before. "Well. One captive demon coming right up."

* * *

They hide the new, angelic binding circle under the edge of the rug in the sitting area at the back of the shop, directly under where the sofa usually sits. Crowley had argued for positioning it right at the front door, to disable Anra's power the moment the strange pair entered the shop, lest they try anything once they're inside Aziraphale's defensive wards. But Aziraphale is nothing if not a good host, and Zedika has been perfectly polite when they've visited – kidnapping and blasphemy notwithstanding – so he sees no reason not to at least invite them both back for tea before springing their trap. 

Plus, the angel reasons, aren't they supposed to be lulling their would-be destroyers into a false sense of security? Making them believe that he and Crowley are receptive to hearing more of their message? They can't do that if they reveal their true intentions too early.

Crowley doesn't see how a few meters further into the shop makes any significant difference on that front, but then Aziraphale plays his trump card: he wants to be able to sit at his desk, or in his armchair, while studying their enemies, rather than having to stand awkwardly about in the front of the shop. And Crowley is, as always, utterly unable to resist anything that goes towards his angel's comfort and happiness, especially when it's not for some _fun_ reason, like making him squeal in terror at Crowley's driving.

He suspects he's not terribly successful at hiding that fact, going from the smug little smile that accompanies Aziraphale's pleased wiggle when Crowley finally gives in.

New circle completed, Aziraphale then pulls out a second, much more familiar book to reference as he adds an additional line of runes around the outer edge of the binding circle under the bookshop's skylight. Where before they had only intended to trap and hold any demon who trespassed there, now they need the spell to go a step further: when he stands within the activated circle, Crowley's powers will not only be bound, muzzled against their full use, but will actually be siphoned away from him, bent to the will of the spellcaster holding him prisoner. It's a fate Crowley's managed to escape by the skin of his teeth a handful of times throughout history, usually through some stupid mistake on the part of the humans who'd summoned him, which is most definitely _not_ something he can expect to happen this time.

It's a lucky thing, then, that said spellcaster is the only being in all creation he'd willingly entrust himself to so entirely.

"Well," Aziraphale breathes out after a while, sitting back on his heels from where he's just finished painting the new spellwork on the floor, entirely encircling the demon trap previously laid there. "That's that."

"Right," Crowley answers. He doesn't move from where he's leaned up against a bookshelf nearby, shoulders hunched and arms crossed over his chest as he watches the angel.

Aziraphale looks up at him, that same gentle uncertainty on his face again. "We don't have to do it this way," he says quietly.

"Nah. 'S fine." Cowley shakes his head and finally pushes himself to move. He saunters across the room, unfolding his arms with forced casualness, and steps past Aziraphale into the center of the binding circle. "Fire it up, angel."

"If you're sure," Aziraphale murmurs one last time, then pushes to his feet at Crowley's impatient frown, dusting off his hands and then the knees of his trousers. "Alright. Well." He draws a deep breath, steps back a bit, and then snaps his fingers.

The circle blazes up around him with heavenly white light, and Crowley grits his teeth, the unforgettable sensation of being chained, weakened, _controlled_ , overtaking him.

"Is it… painful?" Aziraphale asks, wringing his hands in front of himself.

Crowley shakes his head, though he can't quite convince his jaw to unclench. "Just weird, mostly." Weird, confining, suffocating, like being immersed in all the worst aspects of Heaven and Hell combined, walls closing in around him and an authoritarian boot pressing down on his ribs all at once. "Well, give it a whirl, angel," he says, forcing himself to try to sound easy and unbothered. "See what you can do with all this demonic power now at your beck and call."

Aziraphale nods, raises his hand, and just before he gestures, Crowley blurts out, "No fires, though."

He can't quite look the angel in the eye, though he knows Aziraphale's face will have softened as he pauses. "Of course, my dear," he replies, voice quiet. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Crowley gives a sharp, shaky nod, thinking that he dreams about the bookshop engulfed in flames more than enough for the both of them, and then watches Aziraphale raise his hand again. A moment later, he feels a rushing, tugging sensation behind his sternum, and the second binding circle lights up a deep crimson, bathing the pushed-back sofa and coffee table in stark, hellish colors.

"Oh, that is odd," Aziraphale murmurs, looking down at his hand as he flexes it, shakes it out like it’s tingling with cut off bloodflow. 

"No kidding," Crowley grinds out, folding his arms around himself again. 

Aziraphale looks back at him, suddenly almost shy. "It feels rather like when we, er…" He doesn't say it, of course – even here, in the relative safety of the bookshop, the secret of their body switch is still too dangerous to breathe a word of. Especially considering Zedika had come to them with an hypothesis of exactly that, presented so innocently and not like they were trying to gauge his and Aziraphale's reactions to the idea of exchanging bits of their essence – their _souls_ – in order to survive what Heaven and Hell had tried to do to them. "Sort of," Aziraphale goes on, his face coloring slightly as he fidgets with his waistcoat, giving a nervous laugh. "It's nearly the same sensation, I mean, only, er… Passing through me, instead."

"Right," Crowley says. The sucking hole in his middle isn't so far off from the feeling of his essence flowing away into Aziraphale's corporation, he supposes. This is one-sided, though, leaving him gaspingly empty, getting nothing in return from Aziraphale, no counter-flow of the angel's power moving past and into him like it had that day over six months ago. 

"Lemme out," he says abruptly, fingers clenching tight, almost clawed, against his own elbows. "It works, that's all we needed to see, right? So we're done."

"Oh— Yes, of course," Aziraphale answers, turning back from inspecting the second circle, its red glow eerily lighting his face from below. He clicks his fingers again and both circles deactivate. Crowley breathes a sigh of relief, his power rushing back into him. 

"It's only…" Aziraphale says then, looking down at the floor in front of the sofa again. 

"What?" Crowley asks, barely holding back a groan because he already knows Aziraphale wants to repeat the experiment for some reason, and Someone help him, Crowley won't be able to say no to him.

"Well," Aziraphale glances back at him, chewing his lip, "we know the spell works _in theory_. But we've no way of knowing if it will actually hold an angel."

Crowley sighs, closing his eyes behind his glasses. "And you want to test it out. On yourself, I assume?"

"There isn't anyone else available," Aziraphale agrees. Crowley can hear the abashed smile in his voice. 

"Fine," he sighs again, and gives a rolling parade wave for the angel to get on with it. A moment later, light bursts up out of the floor around his feet, his power is once more sucked away, and he opens his eyes to see Aziraphale approaching the other, still inert, circle.

"Angel," he starts, just as Aziraphale steps into it. "Wait, if we're both trapped—" 

But Aziraphale is already snapping his fingers, the circle's lines glowing red.

"…How are we gonna get out?" he finishes, burying his face in his hands. Fuck, they're both such morons. How have they _possibly_ survived the last six thousand years?

"Oh. Oh dear," Aziraphale murmurs, turning around inside the circle to stare back at Crowley with huge, worried eyes. "I hadn't thought of that." He swallows, and Crowley can see the precise instant he tells himself to keep a stiff upper lip about this. "Let me just… test this out," Aziraphale says, and raises a hand to push against the barrier created by the binding circle.

His hand goes right through.

"Oh." He looks down, nudges at the glowing lines on the floorboards with the toe off one boot – and, again, seems to meet with no resistance. "Oh bother," Aziraphale says, his face crumpling. He steps out of the circle entirely, and with a wave of his hand releases Crowley as well. 

Crowley adjusts his sunglasses, eyeing the angel up as he slumps into his armchair. "Angel…" he starts, crossing the bookstore back to their usual drinking spot.

"I'm so sorry, my dear," Aziraphale says, looking up at him with a tremulous frown when Crowley draws near. "I put you through that – twice! – for a spell that doesn't even work."

"Hm." Crowley folds his arms on the chair's tall wingback, leaning his chin on them. "Or maybe it just wouldn't work on _you_ , since you were the one casting the spell," he points out, thinking of Anra being able to stick her arm into the demon trap to grab him when she'd held him captive.

Aziraphale's brows pull together. "I suppose that's possible," he concedes. "Or maybe a spell written by and for humans simply won't function correctly when filtered through an angel's hands." He sighs, then smiles slightly, looking up at Crowley by his shoulder. "It's probably for the best, in any case. So we wouldn't both end up trapped, like you said."

Crowley grins down at him in return, and for a few seconds they just gaze at each other, until Aziraphale looks away, clearing his throat, a slight flush on his cheeks again. 

"We ought to scrap the whole plan, though, I think," Aziraphale goes on, his voice full of quiet disappointment. "We can't be sure one way or another if the binding circle will actually work to hold Zedika's mate, and I'm not willing to risk it, especially not if it requires binding _you_ as well."

"Yeah," Crowley nods, scratching his chin with one hand. "Can't argue with that. What do we do instead, though? We could just… not go meet them tomorrow." He checks his watch. "Er, today, rather."

"And not answer the door when they come knocking again," Aziraphale adds glumly. 

"We could always—" Crowley starts, but doesn't get as far as suggesting yet again that they go off together, maybe out of the country, maybe out of the solar system, cutting himself off as another thought occurs to him. He feels his eyes widen, and then he smacks a hand over his face, laughing. "Fucking Heaven, we are _such_ morons."

"What?" Aziraphale asks, sounding affronted as he twists to look up at Crowley again.

"Angel. Get back in the circle," Crowley tells him, hustling him up from the chair and around the coffee table.

"What are you—? Crowley, it doesn't _work_." But he stays put when Crowley steers him by his shoulders and positions him in the middle of the binding circle.

"Yeah, actually," Crowley grins, backing away, and snaps his fingers. The circle springs to life around Aziraphale's feet again, red and sinister. "I think it does."

Aziraphale shoots him an exasperated frown and moves to step across the glowing runes again, only to be stopped cold. He raises his hands, palms pressing flat against the invisible barrier. "Oh."

"The spellbook was written for _humans_ ," Crowley says, his smile all teeth. 

"...Yes."

"Spells like that one," he hooks a thumb over his shoulder towards the binding circle under the oculus, "are for _humans_ to direct the power of _occult_ beings."

Aziraphale covers his eyes with one hand, nodding. "Because they don't have the necessary power themselves."

"No binding needed when _I_ can already direct my _own_ power!" Crowley crows.

"Quite right, my dear," Aziraphale replies, dropping his hand to look up at Crowley, his smile warm and so very fond that Crowley can feel all his words turning to mushy vowels in his mouth. But then the angel gets a particular glint in his eye, and he says, "Hold steady," a half second before his form blazes with light.

"Shit!" Crowley curses, bracing himself against the surge of angelic power pushing on the circle's confines. Where Crowley had sought to find some weak point in the spellwork he could slither through when Anra had him bound, Aziraphale is taking a more direct, brute force approach, throwing his holy power against the barrier like ocean waves against a cliff. 

Crowley grinds his teeth, planting his feet and raising his hands, straining to maintain the binding spell against the angel's barrage. He has no delusions about what his chances would have been should he ever, Someone forbid, have had to go head to head against this Principality for real. It wouldn't even be a contest without the aid of the circle's runes focusing and sharpening his power. Not that that's terribly surprising; he's always known Aziraphale is strong, a soldier, a specially selected guardian from humanity's very first days.

They're both breathing hard when Aziraphale finally relents after several minutes. "Well," the angel says, and produces a tartan handkerchief from within his jacket to mop at his brow, "I do believe the spell works."

"No shit," Crowley pants, leaning forward to brace his hands on his knees, his head hanging down. 

"Dearest."

"Hwhuh?" Crowley looks up, knows his sunglasses have slipped too far down his nose, his eyes revealing too much as his technically unnecessary heart skips several beats.

Aziraphale smiles benignly at him, gesturing down at the still-glowing runes encasing him.

"Oh." He snaps his fingers.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through the oblong opening, Crowley can see what looks like a sitting area, a piece of furniture approximating a soft tan couch, mementos attached to the wall above, feathers and writings and a portrait of two winged figures wrapped around each other, just like the tableau of the two of them that had been seared into Crowley's eyes the previous day. An angel and a demon who, by all appearances, have actually made a home together.
> 
> Which is just another reason Crowley knows they're full of shite.

Aziraphale insists on accompanying him when Crowley goes to meet their guests at noon, despite his suggestions that maybe one of them – the one who was seriously injured in their previous encounter, _say_ – should stay behind, hold the fort, yadda yadda. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale says, his voice steady and low as he cuts through the demon's ongoing prodding, "if you think, after watching them kidnap you, and take you who-knows-where to do who-knows-what to you, that I am letting you out of my sight for more than a moment, then I'm afraid you have got _quite_ another thing coming."

"Ngk." He can only stare for several long seconds. Aziraphale holds his gaze, unblinking, entirely serious. "Uh. Right," Crowley finally croaks. "Sure, angel."

And so, at a few minutes before noon, they step out into the foot traffic of Soho together – as they had _tried_ to do yesterday morning, before any of this mess started, he thinks, grimacing internally – and turn towards the alley where they'd come out through the portal before.

There's no one there when Crowley peers around the corner, no ambush awaiting them that either of them can detect. "Could still be a trap," he mutters, glaring around at the bins and fire escapes and dirty windows lining the alleyway.

"Quite," Aziraphale agrees. And then he slips his arm through Crowley's, curling his hand around the demon's elbow, and starts down the alley at a leisurely stroll.

Crowley is too heart-stoppingly aware of Aziraphale's body heat, the angel's grip on his arm, to do anything but allow himself to be pulled along.

It's not that they _never_ touch – Aziraphale has actually touched him more in the last seven months than probably the last seven centuries put together. Which is. You know. A lot. To deal with.

And his hands are always so _warm_. And soft. He knew the angel liked his manicures, had done ever since humans had invented them, would regularly go to get his hands massaged with lotion, his nails cleaned and carefully shaped. He knew Aziraphale preferred comfort and study to any sort of manual labor, including the heavenly combat he was created for.

Crowley knew all of this, but none of it had prepared him for how soft his angel's hands would feel when they had clutched his, desperate and shaking and exhausted, on that bus ride back from Tadfield last year. It's such a small, stupid thing – could even be considered vanity, or gluttony, the way Aziraphale pampers his physical form – but it makes Crowley's blackened heart ache. For all that he knows Aziraphale is, metaphysically speaking, the stronger of the two of them, that he was built to be a soldier, the fact that the angel _chooses_ , time and again, to be soft, to be gentle, makes him want to extend a wing in return and protect this beguiling creature from anything Hell, Heaven, or anyone else might rain down on them.

All of which is to say, Crowley's hands ball into fists in his trousers pockets as they walk, and his throat clicks and maybe gurgles as he stares down at the hand on his arm from the corner of his eye, and he sure hopes that high-pitched whining noise is only in his head and not escaping out into the world where it can _really_ embarrass him.

"This seems close enough to where we came through yesterday," Aziraphale says, and glances back the way they came, towards the street. Crowley sends a miracle back that way, and to anywhere anyone could see them from the surrounding buildings, to glaze the senses and deaden the consciousness of the humans in the area. 

Bad enough they'll have to contend with these idiots and their wings; they can at least stop anyone from seeing the portal open in midair.

"Thank you, dear," Aziraphale says, smiling, and checks his fob watch with his free hand, the other still tucked into the crook of Crowley's elbow. "It should be any moment now—"

Crowley feels the tingle run up his spine before he sees the portal actually appear, just like every other time it's happened, an alarm sounding somewhere in the back of his head as the fabric of spacetime is torn open. _Something's coming that **does not** belong!_ it seems to cry. And then Zedika's characteristic rounded, doorway-ish portal yawns its way through the air in front of them, and a moment later the other demon is peering out of it at them.

"Greetings," Zedika says, and steps carefully through onto the pavement.

"Good afternoon," Aziraphale replies with a warm nod, and anyone else but Crowley would think he was _actually_ being polite and genial, and not that he was lying through his pretty smiling teeth.

Zedika clears the doorway and turns back to face it, extending their hands. "It is alright."

Through the oblong opening, Crowley can see what looks like a sitting area, a piece of furniture approximating a soft tan couch, mementos attached to the wall above, feathers and writings and a portrait of two winged figures wrapped around each other, just like the tableau of the two of them that had been seared into Crowley's eyes the previous day. An angel and a demon who, by all appearances, have actually made a home together.

Which is just another reason Crowley knows they're full of shite.

Another, larger figure steps up to the portal now, but doesn't come through yet: Anra, Crowley's healer-slash-jailer from the day previous. She frowns down at the pavement under Zedika's feet, swallowing thickly, her dark brows furrowed close together.

"It will be alright," Zedika murmurs, moving a little nearer and extending their hands more emphatically. "I promise."

Anra looks up at that, swallowing again, and meets Zedika's eyes. They simply gaze at each other for a beat, and then Anra takes a breath, places her hands in the demon's, and steps through the portal onto English soil. Or, English concrete, anyhow. Whatever.

"Right. Can we—?" Crowley starts impatiently, nodding his head back towards the street.

"We will need some time to adjust first," Zedika responds, their voice as sharp and firm as Crowley's ever heard it yet, though they don't even look over at him and Aziraphale when they speak. Their eyes are trained solely on Anra's face, watching as the angel stands clutching their hands, her eyes squeezed shut and pale wings trembling behind her.

Finally, after what feels like an age, Anra releases a shuddering breath and opens her eyes a little to look down at Zedika. "I… I believe… this is alright."

Zedika offers her a small smile and then takes a step back, pulling Anra along by their joined hands. When the angel is well clear of the portal, it closes with a flick of Zedika's gaze past her.

"And now?" they ask, looking up at Anra again.

Anra takes several more deep breaths, quick, seeming almost on the edge of panic, before finally settling as Zedika pets their thumbs over the angel's knuckles. Her shoulders release their tension and she nods. "Just—" She shuffles closer, hunching forward as she curls in over Zedika's hands in hers. "Do not let go."

"I will not," Zedika whispers.

"All good?" Aziraphale asks brightly, drawing the other pair's eyes over to him. "Right! Let's be on our way!"

"One more thing," Crowley cuts in, and gestures towards Anra and Zedika with a finger waving in the air. "Wings."

"Oh. Yes," Zedika breathes, glancing up at Anra again with a slight smile. "We have been practicing."

Anra nods again, drawing in a deep breath as she straightens her spine – though she still doesn't drop Zedika's hands. They both close their eyes, grimacing with concentration, and then their wings begin to fade, slowly, from view.

It's a weird, half-done job, Crowley thinks with a sniff, the extra limbs emerging from their shoulderblades still visible for a few inches before shimmering and disappearing into clear air behind them, looking a bit like a heat mirage. Honestly, it probably takes _more_ effort to maintain them in that half-in-half-out state, rather than just putting them away entirely the way every demon and angel has learned to do since the Beginning.

Just another stupid little detail to try to make themselves _seem_ believable, like they really are from another universe. But Crowley's not fooled.

"Marvelously done," Aziraphale congratulates them, in that insincere-but-trying- _so-hard_ -to-be-kind way that he uses to address small children and misinformed archeology professors. Crowley adds his own miracle to stop anyone noticing them when they step out onto the street, earning him a warm smile from his angel. "Well, let's be off."

"After you, of course," Crowley says, laying it on thick as he gives a slight bow and waves an arm for Anra and Zedika to go ahead of them.

They do, still clinging to each other, and while Zedika walks with their gaze forward, knowing the way to the bookshop by now, Anra casts a distrustful glance Crowley's way as they pass. He grins at her; she knows what's coming, even if she doesn't _know_ what's coming. Revenge will be sweet indeed.

They make it back to the bookshop without incident, and once the double front doors are closed behind the four of them, the intruders both let their wings rematerialize with great twin sighs of relief.

"I do not understand how you endure such discomfort on a regular basis," Anra comments, rolling her shoulders and flexing her wings several times. She still hasn't let go of Zedika's hands.

"The younglings here do not react well to the sight of our wings," Zedika murmurs.

"Yes, _because_ they continuously hide themselves," Anra replies, with the air of an oft-repeated argument. Zedika only sighs.

"One grows accustomed to it," Aziraphale says, releasing Crowley's arm to begin circling around the other two. He folds his hands against the small of his back, and Crowley knows he's suppressing the urge to adjust his own shoulders with all this talk of wings – they both are. There's an ache there that never really goes away, though they've learned to tune it out most of the time.

Most of the time, except when wankers like these two draw attention to it.

Crowley locks and wards the doors behind him with a click of his fingers, then slouches after the others as Aziraphale leads the way to the back room. The angel offers their guests the sofa, all politeness since they're still holding so close to each other, and then sets about making a pot of tea while they sit. The angelic binding circle lies inert under their feet, Aziraphale's antique rug now back in place and hiding it from view.

"Oi, you," Crowley says, lurking in the doorway and snapping his fingers a few times to get Zedika's attention. "Got some questions for you about this whole 'alternate universe' twaddle." He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, back toward the front of the shop, where he'd laid out a collection of books on astronomy, physics, demonology, anything he could think of that might possibly be relevant to the topic.

"I can answer your questions from here," Zedika says, frowning at him from where they're leaning into Anra's side, their hands still tightly linked.

"No, no." Crowley shakes his head, shoves his hands in his pocket, looks back and forth between the other demon and the books lying open on the front counter. "Look, it's— It's better if I can _show_ you what I mean, try to avoid any more misunderstandings like yesterday."

Zedika bites their lip, looking torn.

"It is alright," Anra murmurs then, gently squeezing the demon's hand. She smiles when Zedika looks up at her.

"Are you sure?" the demon asks, brows pulling together anxiously, and Anra nods.

"I already feel more secure than when we first crossed over." As if to prove her point, Anra releases Zedika's hands and sits up a little taller, no longer leaning so heavily on the other's smaller frame, and draws in a deep breath, perfectly well even with less physical contact between them. Crowley rolls his eyes; they're only undermining their own story now, about how a 'guardian' from their 'universe' would need their 'mate' to keep them safe here. Utter wrot, if she can let Zedika go so easily. "I will be fine for a few minutes. Just do not go far," she adds, smiling ruefully.

"I will not," Zedika assures her, offering a small smile in return, then looks up when Aziraphale bustles back over with a tray of tea and biscuits. They watch with interest as he explains the food and drink to them, pouring out four cups and adding cream and lemon to his own to demonstrate before offering the others around. Crowley folds his arms, leaning against the doorjamb and resisting the urge to tap his foot impatiently. For one thing, he hates to ever interrupt the angel when he gets going expounding on his favorite things – even hideously uncool things like tartan, or sleight of hand tricks – and for another, there is that whole 'false sense of security' step in their plan. Wouldn't do to rush it and show their hand now.

"I can not," Anra says, raising a hand to stop Aziraphale when he holds out a cup towards her. "The particles of this world would not agree with me, I am afraid."

"Oh," Aziraphale says, frowning in dismay, and replaces the teacup on his tray. "Oh, well, that's alright then. Whatever you say."

 _Typical,_ Crowley hisses internally, rolling his eyes behind his glasses again. Isn't it just typical for other angels to refuse any food or drink, no matter how Aziraphale assures them there's nothing wrong with it. What'd he say Gabriel had called it? ' _Gross matter_ ' or something. ' _Polluting his temple._ ' And the wankers can't stop being such stuck-up pricks even when trying to pass themselves off as inter-dimensional aliens.

"It has a pleasant flavor," Zedika comments then, after taking a sip from their own tea, heavy with cream, and smiles nervously at Aziraphale as if hoping to distract from their partner's rudeness. Then they glance up at Crowley. "I would be remiss in the face of this hospitality not to at least attempt to address your questions," they say, and rise carefully from the sofa with one last glance back at Anra. The angel nods up at them, and then Zedika is crossing the room towards Crowley, stepping outside of the bounds of the hidden binding circle, off the rug, looking curiously past him towards the prop books he'd gathered up, while Anra turns to address Aziraphale, the enemy angel's mouth just opening to say something—

Crowley clicks his fingers.

Red light bursts up through the carpet, surrounding Anra, who chokes on whatever she'd been about to say, eyes widening.

A teacup shatters on the floor just in front of him, milky tea splashing across his shoes, but he pays it no mind, all of his attention focused on holding the binding spell firm against an enraged angel.

" _Anra!_ " Zedika shrieks, dashing back towards the sofa, but Aziraphale intercepts them, stops them with strong hands on their upper arms.

Crowley widens his stance, tapping into the deep well of his powers, ready for the attack that must be coming, any second now.

Inside the circle, Anra still looks like she's choking on nothing. She raises a hand to the invisible wall around her. Crowley clenches his teeth, raises both his own hands to counteract whatever onslaught she unleashes – but none comes.

"Stop! Stop, please!" Zedika sobs, trying to claw their way around Aziraphale, but the angel is an immovable object to their very-much-stoppable force.

Anra's hand bats feebly at the barrier, her power flaring fitfully, barely even a challenge to contain and growing weaker by the moment.

"Please, _please!_ Please, you are killing her!"

Aziraphale frowns down at the frantic demon, then over at Crowley. He's about to shrug in response, figures this must be some sort of trick, somehow – though he can't think how, or _why_ , you would snuff out your own power like this – when Anra lets out a shuddering breath, her hand sliding down off the invisible barrier and her eyes rolling up into her head as she collapses, unconscious, on the sofa.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The words land like a punch to his gut, and Crowley finds his chest suddenly too tight to draw a proper breath, for all that he doesn't really need it. He knew, every time he sauntered up to the angel in all the long years of history behind them, he knew what he was risking, knew it could spell an eternity of torture and/or outright destruction if either side discovered his feelings for Aziraphale. But he couldn't stay away; he'd been hooked from that very first conversation atop the walls of Eden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. 
> 
> Anyone else see that tumblr post about how there's no such thing as 'writer's block', it's just depression? Yeah. That. I felt that. In a way though, it kicked my butt into realizing my depression was getting worse again, and that acknowledgement helped me write a bit again. Huh.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is full of Crowley Having Emotions. And please note the new tags re: panic attacks, ptsd, and a certain demon being an unreliable narrator – which, honestly, probably should have been there from the beginning.

Someone is screaming, maybe, probably, unless it’s all just in Crowley’s head, his skull ringing like a bell, sirens and crackling flames and water cannons blasting in his ears, and Aziraphale is gone, he’s fading, Crowley can’t save him, he’s too late, he can’t— 

“Crowley?”

The voice is disembodied, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once as Crowley’s eyes swing wildly around the pub at the end of the world, the music pounding in his ears, alcohol burning his veins, his throat, his eyes, but it _was_ Aziraphale, he thinks, it sounded like him, maybe Crowley’s not alone after all—

“ _Crowley!_ ”

His gaze snaps towards the voice, and, and there he is, his angel, _Aziraphale_ , he’s here, he’s _fine_ , shining and perfect, embodied, solid, real, _here_. 

“Crowley, the spell!”

Crowley blinks, sluggish, and then there’s movement: another figure, smaller, winged, standing by Aziraphale, wrenching free of the angel’s grasp to dart across the room. 

Small, dark-winged, dressed in reds and browns. Oh— Zedika. Yes? 

He’s too fuzzy, still reeling, trying to remember where he is, what they’re doing, why this other demon is here yet again, why are they—?

Why they’re climbing onto the sofa, right over the now-inert sigils on the floor, sobbing as they clutch at the angel there, dark wings curving protectively around the other's unconscious form. 

Crowley wobbles, feels himself falling; he manages to catch himself when his back impacts a bookshelf, manages to stay on his feet, but only just. 

“Crow— What— The plan!” 

Aziraphale is staring back at him when Crowley finally manages to drag his gaze upwards, the angel’s hands flung in the air before him, gesturing in dismay at the pair on the sofa. 

He opens his mouth, but nothing will come out at first, consonants sharp as glass as they scrape up and out of his throat. “Hrghk— I— I can’t—” He feels himself shaking, shaking his head and shaking all over, watches Aziraphale’s brows draw together, and then he turns and staggers out of the room. 

He’s vaguely aware of Aziraphale dithering behind him, torn between keeping his eyes on their would-be prisoners and following after Crowley. No doubt wants to complain about their half-baked little plot collapsing like a poorly-crafted soufflé – and all because Crowley couldn’t keep his _fucking emotions_ in check. 

He slinks out towards the front of the shop, trying to convince his brain and his pointlessly hammering heart to accept what his eyes are telling him – that the books around him aren’t wreathed in flame, that there’s no smoke or ash to burn its way down into his lungs, no lights or sirens on the street outside. He tries, he does, but isn’t really sure he succeeds. He trundles to a stop at the shop’s front counter, staring up at the doors that are _not_ charred and crumbling off their hinges, thank you very much. 

It doesn't stop the shaking, and he finds himself bracing his hands against the countertop's worn edge, then curling down over it, his spine rounding and flexing as if to allow his wings, were they currently visible, to encircle him, to block out all the conflicting images flashing before his eyes, memories almost as real and solid as the floor beneath his feet. He rests his elbows on the worktop, drops his head into his hands, pushing his glasses up to instead rub at his eyes with his fingers. 

“My dear, are you… Are you quite alright?” Aziraphale asks from behind him then. Decided their guests aren't going anywhere for the moment, then. Realized Crowley's the bigger problem. His voice is soft, hesitant. Crowley can practically hear him wringing his hands. 

“Do I bloody _look_ alright?” His retort is somewhat muffled by his hands on his face. 

“Er, well…” He knows Aziraphale is biting his lip, then straightening his posture. “Did she harm you somehow?” he asks, voice turning urgent. “I found that binding circle was terribly difficult to break, but if she managed to—” 

Crowley is shaking his head again. “No. It was—” He moves his hands to his temples, digging his thumbs in, stares down at the shiny antique wood between his elbows as he tries to replay the last few minutes in his mind. It’s all tangled up with his memories of the fire now, and of thinking Aziraphale was dead, thinking he’d just sit there and drink himself into oblivion until the world ended around him, and then yesterday, when the angel came through the portal after him, and he very nearly— “It was the exact opposite. I could feel her fading away.” 

Aziraphale is silent a moment. Then, “Fading?”

Crowley nods, drags his hands down his face again. That’s what Anra had called it, anyway. “Like you. Yesterday.”

Another beat. “Oh.” He hears the angel’s clothes rustle as he turns to look back, towards the room where the others are, where they can still hear Zedika weeping. “Are… Are you quite sure?”

“Yes, I’m fucking _sure_ ,” Crowley snaps, and pushes away from the countertop, rounding on Aziraphale with a glare. “When you had me bound up in the demon trap, you could feel me – my power – couldn't you?”

“Well, yes.”

“It was the same here,” he flings a hand out toward the back room, “and I could— I could _tell_ , she was, was— It was like her essence was _evaporating_ , disappearing into thin air, just— Poof! Gone!”

Aziraphale gazes at him for a long moment, purses his lips. “You don’t think they… That they were telling the truth? About angels not being able to cross between here and… wherever it is they came from?”

Crowley stares at him, and Aziraphale stares right back, blue eyes wide and hands clutched together in front of his waistcoat, silently begging Crowley to disagree. They’re both quiet for a minute, just their habitual breathing and the sound of Zedika’s tearful, murmuring voice drifting up from the back. It couldn’t actually be true… could it? Because if they're telling the truth about _that_ , then everything _else_ they've said—

Wait, the portals.

He wants to slap himself across the forehead, very nearly does. "Angel, we've only seen _demons_ create any of those portals."

Aziraphale's eyebrows jump up a tic. "They're infernal by nature." The thought is still only half-formed for Crowley, and Aziraphale beats him there, clever angel. "It is the act of passing through them that's harmful to ethereal beings, rather than the destination."

"Like a circus animal jumping through a ring of hellfire," Crowley nods, grinning.

Aziraphale gives him a peeved look at that description, before his frown turns thoughtful. "So you think their, er, 'soulbond' sustained Anra, protected her from the portal's wrath up until the binding spell cut them off from one another?"

"Yup, yup." He keeps nodding, an addled bobblehead who still doesn't quite feel he knows which way is up thanks to his very own memories overtaking him, but this, this is good, this is promising, they're on to something here. "There was probably like a little hellfire residue or something, didn't hurt her so long as she was connected to Zedika, like… like…"

"Like a sort of immunity. To hellfire," Aziraphale finishes for him, wonderingly, because isn't _that_ an interesting thought. They might not have had to switch places for their executions after all – they might have _actually_ been immune, at least while they'd still had each other's essences in them.

Crowley mentally sidesteps the thought of their temporary bond and all its implications – the things Zedika had said it implied, anyway. It was all lies, he reminds himself, it didn't mean anything, he and Aziraphale weren't— Right, no, sidestepping. Not dwelling. He forces himself to focus instead on what they've just realized, and on the fact that, despite the obvious attempts to pump him and Aziraphale for information, to suss out if this was how they had survived their trials, these idiot agents from Heaven and Hell have instead unwittingly _told them_ something they didn't know about their own scheme.

There's also the fact that, by luring or forcing Aziraphale through the portal yesterday – whichever it was, he still hasn't got a clear answer from the angel on how that all went down – Zedika was able to test whether Aziraphale is _currently_ immune. 

And now their enemies know he isn't.

He can't help wondering, just for a moment, if maybe this apparent immunity is a good enough excuse for him and Aziraphale to try blending their essences again, to maintain such a bond long term, if that's something the angel would go for… Or if he'd object to ever doing that again, based on what Zedika had said, about it making them mated then, no matter the practical benefits, if it would be too excruciatingly obvious that that's precisely _why_ Crowley wants so badly—

There’s a quiet, pained groan from the back room, making them both look around, and then they hear Zedika’s voice gasping with relief. 

“I am here, I have you, you are safe,” Zedika whispers, words thick and tumbling over each other, and the slight creak of the couch cushions suggests that they’re rocking gently back and forth, no doubt cradling Anra to their chest. “It is over, you are safe. We will return home as soon as you are strong enough to move.”

Aziraphale is still frowning in thought, but Crowley pulls himself upright, begins prowling back towards the other pair. Aziraphale's hand on his arm stops him, though, and the angel turns his head to one side, lifting an elegant hand to point to his ear when Crowley looks back at him: _Listen._

“What? No!” Anra’s voice rings out next, weak and thin, but no less vehement. “We cannot leave yet – your mission is _important!_ "

“Not as important as your life!” Zedika hisses back. 

There’s a long silence from the back room. “I knew what I would be risking when I agreed to come here,” Anra says, her voice low and steely. 

The words land like a punch to his gut, and Crowley finds his chest suddenly too tight to draw a proper breath, for all that he doesn't really need it. He knew, every time he sauntered up to the angel in all the long years of history behind them, he knew what he was risking, knew it could spell an eternity of torture and/or outright destruction if either side discovered his feelings for Aziraphale. But he couldn't stay away; he'd been hooked from that very first conversation atop the walls of Eden.

For a moment, Aziraphale's fingers tighten their grip around Crowley's elbow, almost painful, and why does that make him think of a tartan thermos and _you go too fast for me_ , why does Aziraphale look so stricken—

The angel abruptly drops his hold on Crowley's arm. "This is all wrong," he mutters, expression clouding over as he turns to pace away.

"What? What is it?" Crowley asks, caught now between continued spying on the other pair, and following after in Aziraphale's wake, as he's always done. He settles for watching the angel pace, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets as deep as they'll go, and notes with a frown that the back room has gone quiet once more.

Aziraphale mutters again to himself, not acknowledging Crowley as his mind clearly whirs away, and the angel starts drifting down between some of the bookshelves without looking up.

And that's when Crowley feels that little shiver he's come to recognize the last two days, like he can feel the very air being wrent apart nearby, that signals an infernal portal opening up.

" _Shit_ ," he hisses, then yells, "Aziraphale!" as he lunges for the back room again, hoping against hope that he hasn't completely fucked this up, that his little emotional meltdown won't spell disaster for them, that he'll be in time before their 'guests' can slip away with their stolen intel, the knowledge that Aziraphale isn't immune to hellfire—

He rounds the doorway just as Zedika is shoving Anra back through the portal, and then stepping through themself. The other demon looks back over their shoulder once, meeting Crowley's gaze with hard eyes, but then, before he can make it more than halfway across the room, the portal snaps shut behind them.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their sheer velocity as he speeds around pedestrians and lorries and police cars alike is soothing to him in ways he can never quite explain. It feels like _doing _something, forward movement, progress, protecting his angel in the only ways he knows how: by running, and hiding.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter! Finally! This is a big turning point in the plot of this fic, and I have been working up to it, maneuvering our boys to get here, for so long now, I kinda can't believe we're finally here. But we are! At last!
> 
> (Not that we're anywhere _near_ the end. This is just one bend in a long & winding road ;) )
> 
> PS: Spot the Jane Austen reference.

He's still staring at the spot in the air where the portal had closed when Aziraphale comes up behind him, a moment later.

"Crowley? What is it?"

It's only been a few seconds, but his mind is already working away, spinning itself up like a top.

Aziraphale gasps quietly, looking past Crowley into the now-vacated back room, realizing what's happened, and Crowley snaps.

He spins around, hands coming up to grab the angel round the arms, forcing him back towards the front of the shop, turning him about partway there so Aziraphale's not walking backwards anymore. 

"What are you doing?" the angel demands, bewildered, but he at least doesn't resist as Crowley frog-marches him toward the front door. This'd be bloody impossible if Aziraphale decided he really didn't actually fancy moving just now, thanks ever so.

"We have to go," is all Crowley can manage to grate out as he hustles the angel through the front doors – which wisely open for them of their own accord, and then dutifully close and lock behind them – and down the steps to where the Bentley has been waiting at the kerb these past two days. He bundles Aziraphale, still pliant and unresisting, in through the passenger door and then leaps around to the driver side, miracling the angel's coat and a tin of snacks into the back seat as he goes.

The Bentley roars to life for him, and then they are tearing away through the streets of London.

Crowley's frantic haze lifts a little as they leave the bookshop and central London behind; their sheer velocity as he speeds around pedestrians and lorries and police cars alike is soothing to him in ways he can never quite explain. It feels like _doing_ something, forward movement, progress, protecting his angel in the only ways he knows how: by running, and hiding.

He becomes slowly aware of the long silence in the car since they left the shop, and of Aziraphale watching him, quiet, waiting, even as he white-knuckles the grab-bar on his side of the car.

"Er," Crowley says.

"They know," Aziraphale fills in matter-of-factly. 

Crowley lets out a relieved breath, tension uncoiling from his shoulders and back now that he doesn't have to explain himself. His foot presses a little more eagerly on the accelerator. "Yeah. 'Xxxactly."

Aziraphale nods, looking out his window, then closes his eyes with a wince as Crowley barely misses a phone box on the corner. "Best to lie low for a bit, then." Aziraphale's voice is a soft murmur, almost as if he's simply musing to himself, and Crowley nods. Then, "Where are we going?"

"Dunno," Crowley answers, maybe a bit too quickly, feels himself going tense again as he glances shiftily towards the angel and away again. "Got a number of boltholes we could hide out in. Maybe get out of the city for a while…" 

Aziraphale nods, still looking thoughtful, and they fall into silence once more, neither commenting on the assumption that they will, of course, be lying low together.

They do indeed get out of the city, and they're speeding south down the A23 before either of them speaks again – Aziraphale doesn't comment when they pass signs for Crawley, lets Crowley's annoyed muttering at the name go unremarked upon until they're well past. Then the angel inhales deeply and says, "I think we should try switching our essences again."

Crowley nearly drives them straight off the road; it's only the Bentley knowing better than to ever let itself actually crash that saves them.

"You what?!" he squawks, twisting in his seat to gape at the angel.

There's a slight flush to Aziraphale's cheeks now, and he won't quite meet Crowley's gaze – too rattled by the demon's driving, as usual. "Well, it would solve our most pressing problem, wouldn't it? If it truly does confer some amount of immunity…"

"Oh. Yeah. Sure," Crowley replies flippantly, a little dazed as he turns his eyes back to the road. _It doesn't mean anything,_ he reminds himself. It's not like Zedika had said – this wouldn't make them _soulmates_. "I mean, if you're that eager to wear my skin again, I feel like I might need to worry a little, Dr. Lecter…" he jokes half-heartedly.

He can sense Aziraphale rolling his eyes even without looking. "Hannibal Lecter never wore anyone's skin but his own – that was Jame Gumb, or 'Buffalo Bill' as he was styled during the investigation."

"When the fuck did you see _Silence of the Lambs_?"

Aziraphale blinks, brows pulling together slightly. "I hadn't realized there was a film of it… But in any case – no, I don't think we need to fully switch our corporations. Zedika and Anra had only exchanged a bit of their essence, after all." He pauses, then adds, in a slightly lower tone, "Besides, those hips of yours are far more pleasant to watch than to attempt to walk with myself."

Crowley nearly crashes again.

They make it, somehow, in one piece to one of the houses Crowley's had off-book for decades now. Bought with human money he'd acquired over the centuries and then carefully laundered and invested, held under a run of aliases that Hell knew nothing of, in no way connected to either the demon Crowley or the human he more regularly pretended to be. This is just one of a dozen or so places he's got sprinkled across Britain and the Continent, one that just happens to be an easy distance from London. But also, Crowley likes this one.

And he's always rather thought – hoped really, in the weak moments when such thoughts creep in past his defences and into the daylight – that Aziraphale would like it too.

The cottage is an almost tooth-rottingly twee thing, with green shutters and honeysuckles growing up the front walls and an overgrown garden simply bursting with new spring life. Crowley will have to terrorize the plants into shape, of course, for as long as they're here before they figure out their next move.

"Oh, how lovely!" Aziraphale breathes as he emerges from the Bentley, taking in the view of the house, and the garden, and the ocean, just visible in the distance, all of it glinting and bright in the afternoon sun.

"It'll do, I s'pose," Crowley sniffs, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets and scuffing his feet on the gravel drive. He leads the way inside, Aziraphale cooing at the sights as he follows along behind him. The cottage is dusty and unfurnished inside, but they could certainly bring in anything they want or need, couch, bed, tea kettle, Aziraphale's books…

Not that they're actually moving in here together or anything.

"I'll just, uh—" Crowley says, making a vague gesture towards the kitchen, with its ancient appliances and breakfast nook. Ordering some food in would be less conspicuous than miracling it, he thinks as he opens cabinets at random, then the fridge – all bare. Leave less of a magic trail for anyone looking for them to follow. But then, the idea of opening the door to a stranger, even, maybe _especially_ , one bearing gifts, right now is setting all the alarm bells off in Crowley's head, making him want to curl up in a protective ball of scales with Aziraphale at his center.

"Crowley," Aziraphale says behind him, and he's standing in the kitchen archway, twisting his hands together in front of himself when Crowley turns to look at him. The angel swallows, takes a breath. "About what I said on the drive down here…"

Hands in his pockets once more, Crowley sways back to lean against the worktop, the absolute picture of nonchalance. No one would ever guess at the long, quiet sigh of despair echoing through his core just now. Aziraphale's pulling back again, but that's okay. Crowley can deal. He always has. "Hey, no worries, angel. Not about to hold you to an offer like that made in the heat of the moment, am I?"

Aziraphale blinks at him, once, his hands stilling. "That's… not what I…" He drops his gaze, looks down at his hands, or maybe at the dusty old hardwoods beneath his feet. "I merely wanted to ask if you had thought about it since I brought it up earlier."

"I— Urhk—" Crowley's throat closes around any words he could possibly say, because, yeah, _of course_ he's thought about it. And not just in the half hour since Aziraphale proposed they hitch their souls up again. It's one of the only things he's been _able_ think about the last few days, ever since Zedika said—

"It doesn't bother you?" he finally manages to get out, still clinging desperately to his casual stance against the countertop, even as his body feels taut enough it would sing like a guitar string if plucked just right. "What, er… What they said it means. That we'd be, um…" He steels himself, teeth baring momentarily, working up the momentum to be able to spit the words out, to just _say it_ , no more pussyfooting around, not like it's any secret how he feels about the angel, Aziraphale must know after all these years, he just has to—

"Bound to each other?" Aziraphale supplies quietly, his hands still clasped together against the front of his waistcoat. Crowley gapes at him, and Aziraphale takes a small step forward. Then, licking his lips, he adds, "Mated to each other?"

"Uh." Eventually, Crowley remembers how to get his mouth to close again. "Yeah," he rasps. "That."

"Does it bother you?" the angel asks, and steps forward again.

"Nuh— whuh— I asked you first!" Crowley sputters, glaring.

Aziraphale acknowledges that with a slight tip of his head, a little bastard smile playing on his lips. "I think it could be… nice," he says as he takes another step – crossed the entire kitchen by now, or very nearly anyway. Crowley could reach out and touch his jacket from here. Another step will bring them toe-to-toe.

"Nice?" Crowley sneers, and is sort of distantly proud of how normal his voice sounds, considering he's doing his level best to keep from vibrating out of his skin at the moment. Some part of his brain is seriously doubtful that this could actually be happening – yet here they are, here Aziraphale is, saying what Crowley thinks he's saying—

"Well, most things with you are nice, after all," Aziraphale says. Instead of taking that last step forward, he raises one hand between them, offering it out to Crowley. "I see no reason why this shouldn't be as well."

Crowley stares at him for a moment, then, with a muttered, "I'll show you ' _nice_ ,'" he takes the angel's hand, and falls all over again.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://jezunya.tumblr.com) for general fandom nonsense, or [instagram](http://www.instagram.com/jezunya) for mostly cat pictures


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